The Mutual Suicide Pact, Part 3
by elbafo
Summary: "Sherlock Holmes," Detective Inspector Dimmock began as a police constable patted Sherlock down for weapons, "I'm arresting you on suspicion of the murder of James Moriarty. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned, something you later rely on in court." Final instalment of my Sherlock-Violet AU romance.
1. Prologue

**Chapter 1 - Prologue**

 **CELEBRATS. NET**

 _THE LATEST IN CELEBRITY NEWS!_

Wednesday 13th November 2013

 _ **VIOLET HUNTER SPLITS**_

 _ **WITH BOYFRIEND**_

Violet Hunter is back on the market after splitting with her live-in boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes. Sources reveal that the _Rise of the Five_ star will move out of their central London flat upon her return to the UK. Hunter has been filming the _Anuket's Children_ sequel in Australia for the last two months. A friend of the star said conflicting work schedules and living on separate continents was to blame.

"A long distance relationship is too difficult to maintain," the source was quoted as saying.

Hunter collapsed on the set of the blockbuster only two days ago, but her rep has declined to comment on whether her condition was related to the break-up.

#

 **LowFatIcream. net**

 _Indulge in Entertainment Gossip without the calories!_

Wednesday 13th November 2013

 _ **RISE OF THE FIVE STAR NEWLY SINGLE**_

Violet Hunter and her forensic specialist boyfriend of 8 months have called it quits. A source revealed that they have decided to amicably separate. Sherlock Holmes, himself an internet celebrity amongst geeks for his science website, visited the star on the set of the _Anuket's Children_ sequel the previous week sparking rumours that their brief romance was in jeopardy.

We're sure Satis won't be single for long! She was spotted around Brisbane town, enjoying the sunshine with co-star and our favourite LowFatIceCream hunk, Joseph Irkhardt. Our Joe has also split from his model girlfriend paving the way for a blossoming romance between the Egyptian God and Goddess.

We can only hope, right?

#

 **SNAPX MAGAZINE**  
Friday 15th November 2013

 _ **VIOLET WAS MISERABLE!**_

A close friend of Violet Hunter revealed to Snapx that the unlikely couple had a heated relationship and that they regularly clashed over how to balance their relationship with their individual careers.

"Violet was often in tears," our source revealed. "Sherlock was quite jealous of the attention Violet was getting from fans, and of her friendships with co-stars."

Sherlock Holmes, a freelance detective for the Metropolitan Police, had frequent clashes with the press, reportedly cutting short Hunter's autograph signing with fans ahead of her interview on _The Late Show_ with Tevish Stewart. _The Late Show_ host, however, defended the detective in his opening monologue this week with a heartfelt comment, "I don't know what all the negativity is about. He's a good guy, but good guys don't always get the girl."

The _Regency Road_ beauty confided in a friend that "it was an emotional rollercoaster and I'm glad it's over."

Violet's rep said, "They're taking a break," while our source says, "They're done."

#

 **SNAPX MAGAZINE**  
Monday 16th December 2013

 _ **VIOLET MOVES ON!**_

Rumours are spreading that the _Improbity_ starlet has a new boyfriend after she was seen in the company of a Manchester nightclub manager. A source close to Violet Hunter has said, "The relationship is very new. They are hanging out a lot together and just enjoying each other's company."

Sources say she was seen getting comfy with the nightclub manager over the weekend. More than likely Hunter is just letting her hair down after ending her relationship with high-profile freelance detective with the London Metropolitan Police, Sherlock Holmes.

Violet Hunter is currently filming a romantic thriller with _Ashendorf_ actor Alex Breville. Her previous film, _Anuket's Children: The Rise of the Five_ is currently in post-production.

#

 **THE WORLD TIMES ONLINE**

Monday 19th May 2014

 _ **HEARING POSTPONED!**_  
 _ **NEW EVIDENCE IN**_  
 _ **SHERLOCK HOLMES COURT CASE**_

The Crown Prosecution Service have called for a delay in proceedings after new evidence came to light during investigations into the Tunbridge Wells shooting of Irish national James Moriarty. Celebrity freelance private investigator Sherlock Holmes has been charged with the murder, but Scotland Yard have been liasing with the National Crime Agency and have requested an additional week to analyse the new information.

#

 **LowFatIceCream,net**  
 **Indulge in Entertainment Gossip without the calories!**

Friday 23rd May 2014

 _ **SHERLOCK HOLMES SOLVES**_  
 _ **ITALIAN ART ROBBERY CASE**_  
 _ **USING SKYPE**_

Italian State Police were baffled over the disappearance of two paintings by Trevisani from the Corsini Gallery in Rome this week. They called on the services of the London-based Consulting Detective. Sherlock Holmes is currently awaiting trial for the murder of James Moriarty, and it is the condition of Holmes's bail that he remain in the United Kingdom.

Using Skype and the services of an Italian translator, Holmes was able to locate the stolen artwork and led Italian Police to the identity of the art thieves.

Two security guards from the Palazzo Corsini were arrested this morning.

#


	2. Sometimes It's So Hard Not Smoking

_**Author's Note:**_

 _ **Now that I'm back into the swing of writing again, hopefully my updates won't be so long in coming! Sorry about that! I've also gone back and added the year to the date in my media headlines in the previous chapter. Have a quick look, so you know where (when!) we are. I didn't really want to lock this story down to any particular year, but the chronology of this and upcoming chapters may be confusing if I don't stipulate the year. This story part spans just over 12 months. And 2013/2014 was when I started writing the first version, so I've left it as that.**_

 _ **Thank you to everyone who faved, follow'd or reviewed this final instalment. I really love reading your comments, so please keep them coming! They keep me motivated!**_

 _ **#**_

 **Chapter 2 - Sometimes It's So Hard Not Smoking**

 _ **Several months earlier**_

 _ **August 2013**_

Sherlock's nostrils twitched as he regarded the grey mottled pallor of one who could no longer return his gaze.

Morrie Simpson, aged sixteen and a half.

Entering into the ranks of the World's Only Consulting Detective's homeless network had elevated Simpson's status of purposelessness into purposefulness. At least, for a time. A lookout or a source of information for a rolled-up fiver or tenner. The scale slid to about fifty pounds for his most trusted lieutenants. Bill Wiggins and Lana (Surname-Unknown) were the current representatives.

"Yes," he said, on a heavy exhale. "Simpson. Morrie. One of my… newer… homeless… acquaintances."

"Right, then," Lestrade remarked. The Scotland Yard D.I. gave a nod to Molly, who soberly zipped up the body bag.

The drawer rolled easily into the mortuary cabinet with a finality that caused an unwelcome ripple in Sherlock's stomach. He noted this curious reaction, probing his Mind Palace for its source.

Violet. And to a lesser extent John Watson. The newly married John Watson. And Mrs Hudson and Molly, and…

They'd all taught him to care, with varying degrees of success.

He dragged a hand across his forehead, then kneaded weary fingertips into his brow. The first guest of the nicotine withdrawal party rapped on the inside of his skull, demanding early admittance. Dammit. He'd forgotten to wear the patches again.

"Is that all?" he asked, knowing full well it wasn't. The heavy droop of Lestrade's shoulders told him that.

"Yeah, well… no," the D.I. replied.

Lestrade gestured to the exit, and they both made their way towards it.

"Thanks, Moll," the D.I. said, with a glance and a grim smile directed at the pathologist, before he heaved open the mortuary door. "It's these new synthetic cannabinoids," he went on, addressing Sherlock who had followed him out into the empty corridor. "Have you heard of them?"

Sherlock's fingers itched to pull out a cigarette. A post post-mortem ritual of another era. It didn't help that Lestrade's question had brought the image of roll-ups to the forefront of his mind.

"Spice," he replied, flicking his fingers by his side instead of reaching into his jacket pocket. "Isn't that what they're collectively calling them?"

"Yeah. All packaged and labelled differently. Pott-pooree and incense most of the time. 'Not fit for human consumption'. That's what they put on the warning label. They think by—"

"Potpourri," Sherlock said, autocorrecting the detective's woeful pronunciation.

"Ugh, yeah. Essence of hippy, in any case."

"What do you want me for? These sorts of deaths amongst the homeless are hardly new."

Lestrade sucked in air through his teeth before he spoke again.

"The GMP are reporting an increase in the use of the stuff. It's attractive because it's affordable and gives a bigger high than weed, apparently. Some punters think it's actually legal. We're only just seeing it more often here. Since you've got contacts there…"

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"Contacts in the Greater Manchester Police department? No more than you."

"N-no," Lestrade replied, readjusting his stance. "In the… you know…" He took a step closer and lowered his voice. "Crime syndicates," he finished. "Let's not beat about the bush. You brought Sebastian Moran down because of inside intel. You've got informants the GMP don't have. Your people must know where this stuff is coming from."

Sherlock's stomach flipped. His head began to throb as his nicotine withdrawal caused his synapses to lazily amble from 'Manchester' to 'Organised Crime', through 'Jacob Venucci' (oh, how he'd love to go through Venucci) to the over-enthusiastic, bubbly actress who was the most recent cause of his abstinence from cigarettes.

Sherlock's eyes widened imperceptibly as a hazy thought snapped into focus.

Oh, Christ!

He hurriedly glanced at his watch, which dutifully confirmed his reason to feel anxious.

Fucking hell!

He took a step back.

"Nope. Can't help."

He dismissed Lestrade's existence with a wave of his hand, then immediately about-faced.

"Wait… Sherlock…"

"Must dash!"

"Hold on! If you've thought of…. Sherlock! You can't just go off on your own!"

Lestrade's familiar protests echoed along the corridor as Sherlock broke into a light jog. He shouldn't have been here this afternoon, of all afternoons!

His mind constantly calculated and recalculated the best possible route and mode of transport.

Out on Giltspur Street, he grabbed a cab, then dragged an anxious hand along his thigh as the seconds ticked by waiting at the traffic lights. Once they were through and made the right-hand turn, they were stopped again.

Christ! What's going on!

The traffic had come to a complete standstill only a few hundred yards into his journey.

Sherlock threw notes at the cabbie and alighted, deciding to continue on foot, at least until he cleared the blockage.

He hastened along the street, reluctant to break into a run just yet. He had to think! An alternate route?

No… no, not possible.

Why couldn't he figure this out?

He knew why. His mind was only working at half-capacity.

As he strode along, Sherlock rummaged through his pockets for a packet of cig—

No! Abstaining, remember!

You're doing really well, came John Watson's patronising voice.

Oh, shut up!

I'm so proud of you! Violet. Her hand patting his chest. A tiny peck on the corner of his lips. He'd stopped smoking for three days that time. Three whole days!

Of agony!

All right, then, he thought, scanning the road up ahead. Focus.

Ah! Another cab!

The traffic had paused momentarily, allowing Sherlock to step out onto the road. He held up a cursory hand to a blue Ford Fiesta, whose driver raised his middle finger at him. Charming! Shaking his head, Sherlock crossed to the far lane where the vacant cab sat. After pulling open the rear passenger door, he climbed in.

"Hey!"

"Thank God for you!" Sherlock said over-dramatically, flashing the cabbie one of his broad, phony smiles, before giving the man directions.

Sherlock leant back into the seat, propped his arm up on the door, and rubbed at his brow.

Three days!

So how long has it been this time?

Don't think about it.

Four… no, five! Five days!

Jesus fucking Christ, what he wouldn't do for a fag right now.

He kneaded his brow with his eyes closed, settling in for the ride. The nicotine withdrawal party was warming up. Music throbbed an incessant beat. Several guests had already spiked the punch.

The ticking of the car's indicator drew Sherlock's attention. His eyes snapped open. The cabbie was attempting to change lanes. Why? Holborn went for miles!

"What are you doing?" Sherlock asked.

"Detour. Up ahead. I have to turn down—"

"Oh, no. No, no, no, no."

When the cab once again came to a halt, Sherlock peeled off another note and threw it at the second cabbie. Out in the rapidly cooling summer afternoon, he scowled up and down the pavement.

Think!

And now he was jogging. What was he going to do? Find another cab! But there ahead was a sign. A beacon!

The Underground.

Chancery Lane.

Sherlock stopped in his tracks, his stomach dropping just a little. Could he do this?

No. No, he couldn't. Not in his current state.

No, yes, he could.

The tube? With all those… people?

Sherlock glanced at his watch. It wasn't quite five. Perhaps it wouldn't be too bad.

Yes. Do it. You have no choice.

It would shave three minutes off his travel time. Three minutes! He was saving time! He could have a quick smoke in that time. In fact…

Sherlock patted his pockets once more.

No!

Before he could hesitate again, he lunged forward and descended into the Underground.

Think, think, think!

"The Central line," he murmured to himself, scanning the signs overhead. "Change to the Bakerloo line at…" Christ, where was he? Chancery Lane! He delved into the far reaches of his Mind Palace, dismissing the notion that there would be a physical map of the London Underground in the near vicinity. He had his own stored somewhere. "Change at Oxford Circus!" he called out gleefully.

There were several tuts and tsks about him, and someone even shouldered him! Reality came back into focus. Sherlock was a rocky outcrop in a stream. The water divided and parted around him, but continued on unabated. He had to join it, or suffer the consequences when the floodgates opened.

He took a step towards the turnstiles…

Fuck!

No ticket!

But wait!

Sherlock dipped into several pockets, remembering the time he'd lifted John's Oyster card for no reason other than it seemed a good thing to have in his possession. But instead of his wallet, Sherlock pulled out a crumpled packet of cigarettes. He peered inside. Two left! The party goers in his Mind Palace cheered, holding up their glasses and toasting him. Of course he'd cleared out the pockets of his Belstaff once he decided to give up this time round, but he hadn't taken to wearing his coat these days. Too fucking hot! But this particular suit jacket…. he'd not worn it in an age.

How wonderful! he thought as he caught one of the cigarettes between his teeth. Now, where's…

Sherlock bowed his head in defeat and wearily plucked the cigarette from his mouth. After shoving the offending items back into this pocket, he pulled out his wallet.

Bingo! Now to see if it had any credit left on it.

Sherlock joined the throng of commuters slipping steadily through the turnstiles. He held his breath upon pressing John's card against the reader. When the indicator light turned green, he exhaled and slipped through. And now he had to go with the flow or risk being trampled underfoot. Not directing his own passage went against every fibre of his being. His skin prickled as the crowd forced him along. The air grew stale and almost non-existent. He had morphed into a little human blood cell, washing through the pedestrian veins feeding the beating heart of the London Underground.

"Central line, change lines at Oxford Circus," he muttered again to himself as if it were a mantra that would protect him against this madness.

Upon the westbound platform, he felt the urge to leap onto the tracks and escape them all.

He squeezed his eyes shut and dragged his hands down his face. The party goers had amped up the music now and were dancing, jumping and throwing their hands into the air. Someone had vomited into a pot plant.

Wind ruffled his hair. The hysterical screeching of the Central line train pulling up at the platform jolted Sherlock back to reality. He shuffled forward, dutifully let other passengers alight, and then jostled for standing room inside the carriage. Holding onto the hand rail overhead, he closed his eyes once more as the train lurched from the station.

He could do this.

He hardly ever did this.

The last time he'd actually taken the tube, he'd been with Violet. He remembered her slipping her hand into his. The warm rush of those heady early courting days. So he could do this.

How long?

Sherlock opened his eyes and studied the map of the Central line above the darkened windows, his brow furrowed. Where the fuck's Oxford Circus?

Chancery Lane — Holborn — Tottenham Court Road — Oxford Circus.

Oh, fuck me! Two stops between here and Oxford Circus! He couldn't cope. Sherlock squeezed his eyes shut one more time and tried to concentrate on his breathing.

DON'T think about the people pressing in on him in the humid, stifling air. Don't think about them breathing on him. Everybody sweltering. All those little minds ticking over about salad greens and pub crawls and the end of summer holidays.

No!

Don't think!

…

Yes, think!

Think about the people!

All of the people!

Let's make this fun!

Let's play deductions!

Okay, Sherlock thought, exhaling heavily. He could distract himself for a time.

Now…

Who is a smoker?

He opened his eyes and scanned the bodies along the carriageway. All seats were taken. Heads were bowed. Devices, books, newspapers in hands. Backpacks and shopping bags pressed between knees. Some people slept or meditated; couples held whispered conversations. The aisle was also crowded with bodies. Statues. Everyone pretending nobody else existed. As he observed them, little signs popped above their heads. Signs only Sherlock could see.

SMOKER, SMOKER, NON-SMOKER, NON-SMOKER, NON-SMOKER, SMOKER, NON-SMOKER, NON-SMOKER, NON-SMOKER, NON-SMOKER, SMOKER…

This was fun!

Through the window HOLBORN flashed before his eyes. Sherlock sighed with relief. One down, two to go. The configuration of passengers changed a little. Sherlock found himself shifted to the right a couple of feet. That was okay because he was coping.

Just wait until he told Violet about this experience. Her eyes would sparkle; she would chuckle and say, 'Oh, Sherlock' in that sympathetic way because she was on his side and supported his struggles with Ordinary Things. And then he'd peel off her clothes and take her right there on the sofa.

God, how long had it been?

Not that he missed her just for the sex. If he really missed sex, and sex was all he needed from her, then why wait for her to return from her jaunt around England, promoting that silly mini-series? He could just as easily don another black coat and trawl the nightclubs every Thursday night.

No. Violet Hunter was so much more than a warm body to cuddle up to in the early hours of a morning after slaving over a cold corpse in the mortuary at Barts. Sherlock Holmes hadn't realised his heart was full of holes until Violet had filled them; hadn't noticed his sharp edges until she'd softened them. Didn't think storing eyeballs in the freezer was socially unacceptable until she'd yelled at him about it (John had simply made sarcastic remarks - totally ineffective!).

Violet Hunter was a champion for his causes; a cheerleader for his efforts. And for his part, he enlightened her on the ways and wonders of the universe — correcting her erroneous views on things; supporting her in her acting thingy until he could make her life meaningful again by bringing her along on his infinitely more exciting cases.

They were perfectly matched in every way.

Okay, then. Let's see how many actors there are. Jobbing actors.

Only a handful of labels appeared above bowed heads this time, plus the young lad on Sherlock's left. Miserable lot they were. Not smiley and bubbly like Violet. No one to enthusiastically squeeze his arm and regale him with stories of a day on set, while he dutifully tuned out. His stomach lurched with an absent kind of longing.

Interestingly, four out of the five actors present were also smokers.

TOTTENHAM COURT ROAD.

Thank Christ for that.

Sherlock bowed his head and massaged the back of his neck. His sinuses also began to ache. Stupid nicotine. Why did he forget the patches today? He directed his gaze to the blackened windows. In the reflection of the glass, he caught his own image. A (handsome!) young man finishing a day at work at the office. He would've worked in a cubicle and owned his own quirky coffee cup. Not at all like the Belstaff, scarf-wearing, Consulting Detective dashing about London. An Ordinary Commuter. Not Sherlock Holmes.

Curious.

No wonder nobody had pointed at him or discreetly tried to take a photo of him with their phone.

OXFORD CIRCUS.

Hooray! his Mind Palace party crowd cheered. Why were they cheering?

On the platform, the sign underlined in brown heralding the way to the Bakerloo line looked frightfully unappealing, while the Exit sign lit up like a party beacon.

Why, yes. Let's exit!

Truth be told, he couldn't take any more of this. At least, not when he was so conscious and lucid.

Just a handful of tunnels to navigate. Another escalator lined with posters. Oh, look, there's Violet!

CATHERINE HILDERNESS

coming to BBC One

7pm, Sunday the 11th of August

Sherlock's chest swelled with pride at the image of Violet in period costume and he momentarily forgot he was supposed to be ascending in the fast lane.

Eventually, he exited into the cool evening. Fresh air at last! The cigarette was between his lips by the time he made it to the kerb.

"Excuse me, could I trouble you for a light?" he asked the young accountant who Sherlock had earlier pegged as a smoker, and who had just lit up in front of him.

Sherlock suddenly felt buoyant, as if he'd endured the unendurable, and as a consequence, he wholeheartedly deserved this reward.

A final journey by cab; they made it the entire way, this time, thankfully! He arrived at 221B Baker Street with several minutes to spare. Still a few things to organise, though!

Sherlock sprinted up the stairs, shed his jacket and made a beeline for the bedroom, stopping along the way to flick on the kettle. After removing his shoes and socks, he slid his second best dressing gown over his shirt and trousers. Now… turn off the kettle. Wouldn't want the water to be too hot! He fixed himself half a cup of tepid coffee—black with only one sugar (it was a half serve after all). He placed it on the table beside his chair.

Brush teeth, swirl coffee around his mouth. Spit, rinse, repeat.

A few final touches to the bedroom and he was done.

Stretching out in his armchair, hands steepled to his lips, he heard the front door slam shut.

Perfect timing!

He closed his eyes, maintained a steady breath and counted the footfalls on the staircase.

"Hello!"

Sherlock opened his eyes with a start and furrowed his brow.

"Oh," he began, before glancing at his watch. "I didn't expect you til Friday."

Violet's eyes glistened, as he knew they would, and an affectionate smile stretched wide. Crossing the floor towards him, she said, with a light laugh, "It _is_ Friday."

She bent over him, and Sherlock inhaled deeply. The hypnotic scent of Cleo de Thebes stirred emotions deep within and he tilted his face up towards her, expectant.

Violet pressed a soft kiss to his lips. He readied himself for more, but Violet drew back, and whispered against his lips, "I spoke to you about it yesterday. Only yesterday."

Sherlock cleared his throat as Violet straightened up.

"I was busy," he rasped. "Lost track of t—"

Another set of footfalls on the staircase drew his attention.

"Oh, Mandi has a few things to organise," Violet said, waving a hand towards the landing and turning from him. "I'll just freshen up."

Sherlock sat up straighter, his stomach plummeting along with his hopes and desires.

Violet had already entered the kitchen and was checking the kettle when Mandi strode into the living room.

"And I've got that Skype meeting later," Violet said, moving through the kitchen towards the back of the flat. "Splendor Pictures, remember!"

Sherlock pushed himself out of his chair, a protest dying on his lips.

"Hiya! All right, Sherlock?"

Mandi barely looked at him, her attention drawn to the iPad in her hand. Sherlock was torn between wanting to see Violet's reaction to the surprise he'd left for her in the bedroom and wanting to bustle her red-headed BFF out of the flat, _tout de suite_. He crossed through to the kitchen, hovering, undecided.

"I've reserved you a backstage pass, all right?" Mandi called out, tapping away at her screen. "So keep the date free."

"What?" Was she addressing him?

"The Late Show," she replied. "Week after next."

Sherlock's head began to buzz.

"Sorry, what?"

"You know. The Late Show with Tevish Stewart. Vi wants you there. We discussed it the other week."

Sherlock sighed. A conversation — one of many — he'd tuned out of.

Mandi, newly installed as his girlfriend's Personal Assistant, tutted and shook her head. She walked away. Probably to make herself at home on his sofa, for fuck's sake. Settle in for the evening.

Violet emerged from the bedroom, a smile threatening to burst from her face. She'd understood the significance of Sherlock's efforts. Not a moron, then, thankfully.

Sherlock allowed half a smile to form on his lips and he gave her a wink for good measure. Seal the deal.

"In a minute," she whispered to him with a squeeze of his hand on her way past.

He heard snatches of conversation between Mandi and Violet. A bit of laughter. Oh, good. Violet was able to farewell her friend and P.A. with the minimum of fuss. Or swearing. Sherlock reached over and locked the kitchen door to the landing. He heard Violet do the same with the living room door.

Awesome!

Violet wordlessly grabbed his hand and pulled him towards the bedroom. The glow of a dozen candles gave the room a sensual and romantic ambiance.

Apparently.

The candles were taken from Violet's collection she usually adorned the bathroom with, she'd know that, but that wasn't the point.

After closing the door behind them, Violet slid her arms around his neck.

"Are these for me or one of your secret girlfriends?"

"Could be both," he replied, lending a rough edge to his voice.

Violet chuckled lightly and then proceeded to finish the kiss she'd begun earlier in the living room. His desire quickened, but he returned her efforts at his own leisurely pace.

Violet eased back and hummed her satisfaction.

"Coffee," she murmured. "A bit of toothpaste… and a hint of tobacco."

She quirked an eyebrow and Sherlock tutted and raised his eyes to the ceiling.

"How long was it this time?" Violet asked.

"Six days," he replied sullenly. Surely the half day counted as a whole. Certainly felt like it.

"Sherlock that's wonderful!"

His ears pricked up. Not what he was expecting to hear. Obviously, his little surprise in the bedroom put him in a favourable light.

Violet caught his lips in hers once more and he locked his arms around her, feeling her melt into him. Urgency built inside him as her mouth yielded to his. But he dragged himself away from the kiss. He was moments away from devouring her.

Hovering over her lips, he whispered, "Welcome home, Violet!"

#


	3. I Value Your Little Contributions

**Chapter 3 - I Value Your Little Contributions**

"Now, Sherlock," Violet gasped in desperation.

Sherlock did as he was bid and Violet exhaled with a relieved moan.

"I told you not to lift it on your own," he remarked, straightening up and wiping his hands on his trousers.

"And you were supposed to get the other end when I said to."

Now that they had pivotted the heavy antique table upon which the computer sat, Violet once again peered at the screen.

"There," she said, gesturing towards the mountain of clothes that covered her bed. "They won't be able to see it now."

Sherlock surveyed the mound. It never grew smaller. Violet's frequent declarations of "just popping upstairs to sort out my clothes" never seemed to produce any sign of progress.

"May I… go now?" he asked.

He'd helped her set up Skype for her silly meeting with… now who was it? Splendor Pictures. That's it. An independent production company based in New York. Of course he remembered. Virginia Schalder and Justin Behmes. Names filed away in his Mind Palace to research later, in case they — like Stuart Jire — possessed ill-intent where it concerned his girlfriend.

They'd rearranged the furniture so the lighting over Violet's dressing table "filled in the shadows" and the bed laden with clothes was out of view.

"No! Aren't you going to stay?"

"W-was I?"

Violet's brows arched. Never a good sign.

"You can sit on the bed," she said, a sprinkling of desperation in her voice. Sit in on a meeting with Violet and two American showbiz types? Discussing… a movie? "And be my support," she went on. " _Silent_ support. Otherwise, it's two against one."

"Two against one? How can it be two against one? It's a meeting, not a debate. You've already got the part. This is to discuss logistics, you said."

"Yes, but—"

"Perhaps I'll just stick my head round the door now and again to see if you're okay."

Sherlock finished his statement with his broad closed-mouth smile, but Violet had already furrowed her brow.

"No. You can see the door behind me. You can't just pop in and out."

"I'm sure you'll be fine."

"I'm feeling really anxious," Violet remarked unnecessarily, clasping her hands together.

"Violet," Sherlock said, placing gentle hands on her shoulders, "they already want you. They've seen your… showreel. Their niece… cousin…"

"Daughter."

"Daughter(!) saw you in Kara's War when she visited London. Live! On stage! Couldn't recommend you more highly! So this is… just a chat." Sherlock straightened up and waved a flippant hand. "Have a cup of tea. You like nattering to people about films and…" He was running out of steam. And his interest level was rapidly taking a dive. "…all sorts of rubbish," he finally muttered.

Violet's eyes lit up. Clearly she hadn't heard his last statement.

"Tea! A cup of tea! Of course! That'll give me something to do!"

"Other than speaking and breathing?"

"Sherlock, you run along and make me a cup of tea." Run along? "And I'll find something to wear," she finished, now facing the bed, a new determination in her tone.

Thank Christ for that! Sherlock heaved a sigh of relief and made for the landing.

"Sherlock!" Oh, dear God. He thought he'd managed to escape! "What am I going to wear!"

A knot formed in his stomach. Trying to maintain a casual air, Sherlock glanced back and said, "What you're wearing is fine." He edged towards the top of the staircase.

"You can't wear white in front of a camera!"

Sherlock clenched the top of the banister.

"Come on," Violet said, tugging at his shirt sleeve. "You're really good at this."

Within seconds, Sherlock was back in front of the mountain of clothes. Eyeing them critically, every white garment now disappeared from his mind's eye.

"And nothing with patterns," Violet added.

He eliminated several more items.

Lifting up a burgundy knitted top, she said, "And nothing that shows my cleavage. It's not that sort of meeting."

"Nothing that shows…" Sherlock furrowed his brow and turned to face Violet. "What sort of meeting necessitates you showing your cleavage?"

Violet laughed lightly.

"Oh… you know…" she said, shrugging. And she drew several garments aside.

Sherlock didn't know. And he really wanted to! It seemed kind of important.

He scratched his head, watching as Violet churned through her clothes. Suddenly he spied something that made his heart quicken, and a familiar warmth spread through him.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, plucking out a jade-coloured evening dress from the pile. Now this dress had a plunging neckline. He remembered the Mickey Mouse pendant he'd bought Violet at the end of their trip to L.A. nestling against her cleavage when she wore the dress to John and Mary's wedding a couple of months ago. Very suggestive.

"Oh, don't be naughty," Violet said, snatching the dress from him. Obviously she'd caught the gleam in his eye.

"You should put it aside," he said, shoving his hands into his trouser pockets, "for those meetings where you need to show your cleavage. I highly recommend it."

"Very funny."

Ah, such fond memories of Violet in that dress.

They'd been a bit tipsy, admittedly. He hadn't been drinking the entirety of the wedding. ( _Not_ 'finding a way to cope', Brother Dear!). He'd had a shot of whiskey before his speech, but afterwards, the rest of the proceedings had been so tedious! And John's other groomsman — an ex-army major called Sholto — had plied Sherlock with alcohol. Not his fault!

But Violet… what was her excuse? She'd accosted Sherlock in the hallway outside the toilets and not-so-innocently wondered what it would be like to kiss him because he looked so handsome in his morning suit. Again, not his fault. And what was her hand doing rubbing the outside of his trousers. Wondering what the fabric felt like?

It was a good thing Sherlock had already committed to memory the layout of the wedding venue. Beyond the yew hedges and neglected topiary stood a hidden pergola. Perfect for clandestine encounters. Underneath the blossoming wisteria and the glow of the not-quite full moon, Sherlock slipped the top part of Violet's dress from her shoulders while he skimmed his lips along her throat. She shuddered and sighed, sending a flash of heat straight to his loins. Casting Mickey Mouse aside, he tried to free her breasts from the confines of her dress and bra beneath.

"What the bloody hell… why are your breasts sticky-taped to your dress?"

His comment brought on a round of giggles from Violet.

"It's… fashion… tape."

Unimpressed (and thoroughly confused), Sherlock murmured, "What will I find next? Staples in your underwear?"

It had taken a full two minutes to get Violet's giggling under control. She was in complete disarray—dress half undone, strands of hair spilling from her low side bun. Her skin was flushed and her eyes glistened with happy tears. Exquisite. He had to have her. But first, silence her in the only way he knew how.

His mouth fed off hers as he bunched up her dress. Fingers trailed to her thighs, skimming then exploring. She tried to continue laughing, mouth pressed against his, but a gasp as his fingers dipped inside ended it all.

Violet murmured his name, quietly pleading. Sherlock continued what he had started with her breasts, lathing and sucking her nipples, first one and then the other. She arched in appreciation, eagerly fumbling for his fly in response.

Sherlock yanked Violet up onto a moss-covered low stone wall, pressing her against a pillar before he plunged inside. Violet clung to him, breathlessly urging him on. It was with an urgent desperation that he drove deep into her, tirelessly, mindlessly, before sending them both deliciously over the edge and beyond.

Violet must've recalled the same memory, for her eyes shone with a certain wistfulness.

Draping the dress over one shoulder and holding it against her waist, she asked, "Did you like me in this dress?"

"I liked you out of that dress," he replied, one corner of his mouth curving upward.

"Well, I'm sorry," she said. "We don't have time to play dress-ups right now."

Sherlock didn't have the _stamina_ to play dress-ups just now. He'd only ejaculated fifteen minutes ago thanks to Violet's saucy dee—

"Oh, fuck, Sherlock!" Violet exclaimed, looking at her digital clock on the dresser. "It's—"

The familiar bloops of an incoming Skype call sounded from her laptop. Violet's mouth fell open, her eyes rounded in panic.

Sherlock casually plucked a top from the bed—scoop-neck, midtones, slim-fitting.

"How do you do that?" she asked, before hastily discarding the top she was wearing. "No, don't answer that question."

After donning Sherlock's selection and quickly fixing her hair as she crossed the room, Violet called back, "You can't leave now!"

In a split second, Sherlock was out the door and onto the landing. He gently pulled the door shut behind him.

A close call!

#

"Sherlock?" Violet called out as she crossed the landing for the living room.

The sole occupant on the mantelpiece greeted her with its toothy grin. Still out then, she mused. He'd left before she was due at the gym for her pre-production fitness regime. Violet hoped the case he had been called out for posed an interesting challenge for him, unlike the one she had sat in on yesterday afternoon.

"Ah, but now you've explained it," the ruddy-complexioned Mr Kingsley had said to Sherlock after the Consulting Detective explained how he knew his client had been indifferent to an ex-girlfriend. "It's dead simple, innit?" the hapless man finished.

Violet's eyes widened. Even she knew that wasn't the type of throwaway remark you made to Sherlock Holmes once he explained a deduction. It was simple _to him_. To Ordinary Minds, it was clever, brilliant, astounding.

She listened, in ever-growing amusement, to Sherlock's rapid-fire alternate-universe deduction to a gobsmacked Mr Kingsley. He finished with the real deduction of, "Your wife left you because your breath stinks and you like to wear her lingerie," then ordered his humiliated client to leave.

Violet had held in her laughter until she heard the front door click shut downstairs.

"God help me," Sherlock said, dragging a hand down his face. "Is this all I'm left with?"

She felt bad that his cases were few and far between. After he'd weeded out the sly journalists and sycophantic fans, the genuine cases that remained in his inbox were below par. Less than a five, he'd told her. Hopefully, Violet thought, Scotland Yard had given him a real case in which to sink his teeth. He'd been gone for hours.

She filled the kettle and clicked it on, before retrieving her Twinings Fruit Selections from the overhead cabinet.

"Woo hoo!" called Mrs Hudson, with an accompanying rap on the open kitchen door. "I've got more milk," the landlady added, crossing the kitchen for the fridge. "I know you don't have it anymore, but Sherlock still does."

"Oh. Thank you."

Violet dropped a tea bag into her mug, biting back the comments that sat on the tip of her tongue in defence of her new diet.

"What are you having?" Mrs Hudson asked, nodding towards the box on the counter.

"Ah… mango and strawberry."

The landlady tutted.

"Back in my day, an ordinary cup of tea never hurt anyone!"

And there it was.

With those parting words, Mrs Hudson exited the kitchen.

Violet clenched her jaw. Not that she would've made an argument out of it with Mrs H. These days, the air still felt stifled between them, ever since the actress, in a drunken state, had insulted the landlady for taking Sherlock's side. Apparently Violet had been swearing and carrying on, her ire directed at Sherlock and then Mrs Hudson. Violet's cheeks flushed when she recalled Sherlock's disappointment in her behaviour.

Once the kettle had clicked off, Violet poured the water into her mug, inhaling the scent of mango. She left the bag sitting in the water, added a dash of cold from the tap to cool it down, then took her mug to the living room. She took a sip and grimaced. Yes, she did miss sugar, milk and caffeine. The sacrifices she had to make for her craft!

Violet grabbed the script she'd been reading the night before and settled into her armchair. She sighed. She was going to have to tell Sherlock about it and see what he thought. Surely he'd be supportive of her choice of projects these days. That's how their relationship had evolved, hadn't it? Encouraging each other in their work. Well, she had tried to help him with his where possible. When she was available.

Had she been supportive of his casework lately, though? Apart from Mr Kingsley's, there was one other she had sat in on, taking notes, asking semi-intelligent questions (Sherlock's words!), before she'd embarked on her _Catherine Hilderness_ publicity tour the other week. That client—Violet had forgotten her name—had also seemed unphased by the presence of the actress.

"I don't think they even know who you are," Sherlock had remarked when they discussed it. "You don't look anything like your public image."

She concluded that those sorts of people had reached a quiet desperation in their own lives, forced to make that final leap into hiring a private (Consulting!) detective. They probably didn't care to catch up on local celebrity gossip. And that suited Violet just fine.

But what had Sherlock been working on lately, while she spent two hours each morning in a North London gym learning mixed martial arts?

Violet cast the script aside, rose from her chair and slid in front of Sherlock's computer at the living room table. It was time to Google Sherlock Holmes again.

"Oh, God," she said, her eyes widening at the headline that appeared at the top of the search results.

 **'MR VIOLET HUNTER' ORDERED TO STAND DOWN** _ **1 hour ago**_

The tiny photo that accompanied the headline showed Sherlock and D.I. Lestrade facing each other, with the Scotland Yard detective's mouth contorted in what was clearly a reprimand. Violet clicked on the link to the article, but barely had time to skim it when she heard the front door slam shut.

Angry footsteps echoed up the stairwell. No need to guess who they belonged to.

Violet quickly closed the laptop and stood up as Sherlock appeared on the landing.

"Unbelievable," he said, his eyes blazing as he crossed the threshold. "Arrogant. Ignorant. Useless." He pulled up stops on the living room rug, only to about turn and drag a hand through his curls. "Didn't listen to a damn thing I said." Violet could almost see the steam billowing around him as he gestured and vented. "Won't let me near witnesses." Another about-turn. "More worried about the fucking press than actually solving the case!"

"I'm sorry," Violet said, not really sure if Sherlock even knew she was present.

But he stopped and regarded her through narrow eyes.

"He invited me," Sherlock told her. "Then dismissed me like an underling. Told me to leave the crime—"

"—stand down?"

"—scene and let the real det—" He straightened up and tilted his head. "What did you say?"

"He told you to stand down?"

Sherlock studied Violet's eyes for a few seconds.

Whoops. Dammit Violet. Should've kept your gob shut.

"How do you know that?" Sherlock asked slowly.

"Um…" Violet replied, before swallowing the lump in her throat. "It was on the… internet," she finished weakly, gesturing to the computer behind her.

In a flash, Sherlock was seated at the table. The air in the room stilled while he scanned the screen. Violet held her breath. Sherlock's expression remained stony.

"Sorry," Violet said again, the headline firmly in her mind. _Mr Violet Hunter._

Since the studio announcement confirming Violet as the character of Satis, the fifth member of the superhero team in the sequel to _Anuket's Children,_ titled _The Rise of the Five_ , there had a been renewed interest in the brand that was Violet Hunter. Lately, there had been more requests for interviews, on top of the ones she'd already conducted during her _Catherine Hilderness_ press junket. The presence of paparazzi at her regular haunts and sneaky snaps from the twitterati resulted in an increase in Violet Hunter-related material online and in the press. And Sherlock's online identity had become less about the clever 'net detective and more about being Violet Hunter's silent but brooding boyfriend.

"Utter rubbish," Sherlock snapped, slamming down the lid of his computer. He made a bid for the kitchen as he spoke. "It wasn't about me not having the authorisation to attend the scene, it was Lestrade caught out by the press for calling in an external consultant. Heaven forbid Scotland Yard come across as incompetent."

Sherlock checked the contents of the kettle before switching it on.

Making her way over to him, Violet asked, "Did the press already know you were there, or did they recognise you afterwards?"

"Dunno," he said, leaning both hands on the counter and bowing his head.

Violet slipped an arm through his.

"Perhaps you need a break from all this," she said soothingly. "Time away from London and the press."

Sherlock heaved out a sigh and withdrew his arm from Violet's hold.

"Not this again," he muttered, turning his back to the counter and folding his arms across his chest.

"It'll be great!" she said, attempting to raise some enthusiasm in him.

Sherlock stalked away from Violet with the remark, "I'm _not_ going with you to Australia!"

Her heart sank. Why did he hate the idea so much? They were going to be apart for _two whole months!_ She just wanted him there halfway through filming.

Sherlock snatched up Violet's script from beside her chair and sank into his own. He held the open script in front of his face as if to read it, but Violet knew he was trying to obscure her from his view.

Such a child!

The last time they'd had this conversation, it had pretty much ended the same way.

Violet rolled her eyes and retrieved a tea cup from the overhead cabinet. She placed a tea bag inside—English Breakfast (because he was allowed caffeine, milk and sugar!)—and went to confront Sherlock in the living room. She couldn't tell if he was actually reading the script or not at this stage, but she decided this conversation wasn't over just yet. She'd get to her script in a moment.

Folding her arms in front of her, Violet leant against the sliding doors.

"I don't mean as a holiday," she began. "Just whatever days you can spare. You could ask Mycroft if he has a case over there. Surely he knows someone in the Australian Gov—"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock repeated in disgust, lowering the script to his lap. His eyes had narrowed. "There's no way I'm contacting my brother." And he lifted up Violet's script once more.

Violet wished he'd stop avoiding his older sibling. This game of who owed whom was petty and childish. Sherlock was sure Mycroft was going to make him work on some tedious case for the British Government because the elder Holmes had fast-tracked the processing of Violet's passport so she could visit her uncle in L.A.

"What is this?" Sherlock said eventually, turning to the front page of the script. _"Improbity_ ," he read, carefully enunciating the word.

Violet's stomach churned. He'd obviously read the first page then.

Clearing her throat, she replied, "It's a new script I've been sent." She rounded the armchair and sat down across from Sherlock. Perhaps now was the right time to have a conversation about this movie. Sherlock turned over a page, clearly absorbed in the scene. "And… it's…" Violet began.

"They're having sex," he stated blandly, not looking up.

"Yes," Violet replied. She leant back into her chair and waited for Sherlock to look up.

He turned over another page so Violet huffed out a breath. She'd rehearsed this several times in her head, anyway, so she may as well get started.

"Yes, there are sex scenes in this movie. Three, actually. And they're vital to the plot. The first one is because—"

"They witness a murder," Sherlock interjected. "While they're having sex in an alleyway. Hardly original."

"Well… yes, but… it… it's more about the character development," Violet went on while Sherlock's eyes continued to track across the page. "In the beginning they're obviously self-centred—absorbed in their own gratification. They're reckless and irresponsible. They're high in the first scene, so they don't quite know what they're seeing. And then they're on the run from—"

"And which role do you play?"

Violet gave a light cough.

"Ah… one of the main characters," she replied, her throat tightening so that her voice came out sounding strained. "Lisa."

Since the dialogue on the first page only alternated between LISA and CONOR, with the preceding screen description stating something along the lines of 'the couple move together' in a CLOSE shot of their clothed torsos with panting and moaning heard O.S., Violet thought she'd give Sherlock a moment to absorb the fact of her possible participation in a sex scene.

Scenes.

"And Alex Breville has already signed up to play Conor," she volunteered, clasping her fingers together.

Sherlock lowered the script. Two creases had appeared between his brows.

"Why do I know that name?"

"Um… well… h-he presented my award… at the TELSAs. He used to be on _Regency Road_ … before my time though. His character died. I think he was murdered by… oh, I don't remember. But he was recently in—"

"Ah, Mr Huggy."

Violet tilted her head.

"W-what?"

"He presented you with your award, then hugged you for an inappropriate length of time."

"Oh… okay… did he?"

"Alex Breville. Single. Currently renting a flat in Colliers Wood. Born on the 18th of May, 1987 in London. Began his acting career playing a Lost Boy in Peter Pan in 19—"

"W-wait, Sherlock. How do you know all this?"

Sherlock shrugged lightly. "I may have researched him after that little _hugging incident_."

Violet's laugh came out high and unnatural.

"Oh…kay," she said.

Sherlock's expression was unreadable as he slowly lifted the script once more.

"And… so…" she struggled to continue, "the scenes will be shot very tastefully. They're quite precise with what they say they're going to show. Actually, the last sex scene is more tender, showing that Lisa and Conor are more aware of—"

Sherlock suddenly stood up.

"Boring."

He dropped the script onto the table beside Violet's chair and buttoned his jacket as he crossed the rug, heading towards the door.

Bewildered, she asked, "W-where are you going?"

"Out," he replied, exiting onto the landing. "I need to think. Might have another look at the crime scene."

"Sherlock!"

For fuck's sake! Did he think she was stupid? His 'need to think' was code for 'need a cigarette'.

Well, thank you Sherlock, Violet thought, indignant.

She stood and strode over to Sherlock's computer. Navigating to her own email account, she swiftly typed out a reply to Polly Stoper, her agent.

 _Happy to discuss Improbity. Please set up a meeting._

#

 _ **A/N: Just a reminder that my story is AU. So, although I mention John's wedding, it was nothing like the episode in the show. And the case with Mr Kingsley isn't to indicate that this scene takes place during S4. I'm just using cases, settings and characters from the show.**_


	4. Secret and Missing

**Chapter 4 - Secret and Missing**

"I just saw John," Violet said, as she breezed through the doorway.

Sherlock's attention remained firmly on his computer as Violet crossed the living room.

"Mm," he responded. "He's disappointed I didn't have an interesting case for him on his morning off." His eyes left the screen long enough to scan Violet from head to toe. "How was your… jog?"

Nice deduction, Violet mused. With a light laugh, she replied, "Good." She leant over and placed a kiss on his lips, relieved he'd actually raised his chin to accommodate her. At least he was trying to seem interested. She'd spent over two hours at the gym, learning mixed martial arts for _The Rise of the Five._ And she had alternated between taking the tube and jogging between stations. Never the same combination two days in a row to throw the paps off. Sherlock's advice. Stuart Jire's trial had entered its third day. Neither Violet Hunter nor Sherlock Holmes were interested in making a statement to the press.

Violet left the living room for her bedroom upstairs, had a quick shower, then changed into casual clothes before returning downstairs.

As she filled the kettle, she drew in a steady breath to calm her nerves. Loosen her larynx… project a casual air. That sort of thing. Sherlock was still seated at the living room table, frowning at his screen.

"Sherlock…"

"Mm?"

"Have you seen my… contract? The one with Stoper Westaway… my agency?"

"Mm… no."

She made her way over to him and began shuffling papers around on the table.

"I've got a hard copy," she said, trying to sound preoccupied, "and I want to make sure it's the same as the electronic copy."

She moved papers this way and that, holding back the urge to launch into a more detailed explanation. Only lies have detail—that's what Sherlock drilled into her when she had to purposefully mislead the studio, during her stint on _Regency Road,_ about the injuries she'd suffered at the hands of Jake Venucci.

She moved a file box from one side of the table to the other and then moved it back again.

"Look, are you going to be long?" Sherlock asked, clicking his mouse forcefully a couple of times. "That's a tiny bit annoying."

"Just… let me know if you see it," Violet said, straightening up and moving away from the table.

She opened the lower cabinets behind Sherlock, drew assorted boxes in and out, checking the weight for the possibility of a firearm. But what would she know about the weight of a firearm? She opened the filing cabinet, where the file titled _Francis Carfax_ in her own handwriting drew her attention, giving her a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach.

"This is all very peculiar," Sherlock remarked behind her. His voice was pitched low; his words spoken as if carefully considered.

A spike of adrenaline elevated Violet's heart rate.

Knew I couldn't get away with it.

She braved a glance at Sherlock.

He had repositioned his chair so that it now sat at a right-angle to its original position in front of the laptop. His legs were stretched out in front of him, crossed at the ankles, and he rubbed the knuckle of his thumb across his lower lip. His contemplative pose. His slitted eyes told Violet he was on to something after observing her for quite some time.

"Have you got a case?" she said, turning back to the cabinet, as if she really wasn't listening to his comment, nor phased by his altered sitting position.

"What did you and John talk about?" he asked.

Violet's head buzzed, her mind scrambling for an explanation other than the actual truth—that John Watson seemed to think he'd left his service-issue revolver behind when he moved out. Or, he suspected, Sherlock may have 'taken' it. He'd asked Violet to sneakily look around for it. Pretend you're looking for something else, he'd prompted her.

"What makes you think we talked?" Violet replied.

Sherlock tutted, then drew in his usual pre-deduction breath.

"Because the interval between John leaving this room and you entering it isn't consistent with a quick greeting on the staircase. Therefore you had a conversation. Was it about me? What else would you talk about."

In spite of the secret she was striving to keep, Violet felt a smile tugging at her lips. This was typical behaviour of Sherlock whenever he had no real cases with which to occupy his mind: uncovering hidden secrets in the furniture and detecting deceit within 221B's occupants. Although, in this case, he was absolutely correct.

Violet opened her mouth to reply, but Sherlock interjected.

"And you're searching places in which your papers have no business residing."

Heart pounding, Violet drew in a steadying breath and said, "Well, if I can't find them where they're supposed to be, I'm going to look where they shouldn't be. Okay? And, since you've asked, John and I were talking about _Catherine Hilderness._ "

"John wouldn't have much to say about a TV show."

"He said he enjoyed it, actually. But… I think he watched it under sufferance."

"Mary," Sherlock volunteered.

"And he was surprised and annoyed I hadn't made you watch it yet."

"Mm," Sherlock replied, turning back to his computer.

Violet laughed lightly, then headed for the kitchen. It was true; she hadn't made him watch it. Why put herself through such torture if he was going to complain every five minutes?

"I'm was making tea," she called out. "Would you like a cup?"

Sherlock rose from his chair and made his way over to the kitchen, hands in his pockets.

"I was thinking about dinner tonight," he said. "Why don't we go out? It's been an age, and surely you can have one night off from your diet?"

Violet clicked the kettle on again and frowned up at Sherlock.

"You don't like going out to dinner. People stare, you said."

"It's a small sacrifice I'm willing to make this time round."

His eyes glistened as he gave her his customary broad smile.

"Takeaway's fine," she replied. "We don't have to go out." Just what was he up to? But she had another favour to ask him. "Because… well, actually," she began, "if you're willing to make a small sacrifice for me…"

Violet noted Sherlock's deep inhale, as if he needed to hold his breath.

"I didn't ask you, well, we did… Mandi and I… the other week, but I could tell you weren't listening."

Sherlock exhaled. Perhaps he had already deduced what she was about to ask.

" _The Late Show,_ with Tevish Stewart," she went on. "It's tomorrow. We've got your name on the list for backstage access. Obviously, you don't have to, but I'd really love it if you could come with me. Us. Mandi and Bonnie and I."

"Who's Bonnie?"

"My hair and makeup stylist. Remember she came over before the…" Before the _Catherine Hilderness_ advanced screening, Violet recalled. But Sherlock had already bolted for Bart's hospital that afternoon. "It doesn't matter," she finished, with a light shrug. "The point is: I really need you there."

"You've done interviews up and down the country. I don't understand why you need me for this one."

"Because it's different." Violet could feel knots forming in her stomach at the thought of it. "Look, you know I can talk about my work for hours. All day, if I have to. But _The Late Show_ is different. This is entertainment, and it's recorded in front of a studio audience. I've never done that before. And Tevish's interviews are supposed to be fun. He does things like getting celebrities to sing or dance, especially if that's not what they're known for… or they read rude tweets or something. They've asked if I can recite Catherine's lines in a Northern accent… as if she's Christa from _Regency Road_."

"Why?"

"They think it'll be funny. He's not a serious interviewer, but he's very popular. I can't really say no without sounding like a dick." Violet's chest tightened and she looked up at Sherlock with imploring eyes. "To be perfectly honest," she said, her eyes stinging a little, "I'm absolutely terrified. If I have you backstage, telling me what a load of rubbish it is… making me laugh before I go on… I know I'll be able to cope."

Sherlock seemed to study Violet's eyes as if he had a lot to contemplate. If he said no, she would understand. She would accept his answer and find a way to cope herself. Champagne, probably. She was sure they served up whatever your poison was. But this was definitely out of Sherlock's comfort zone. Not as intense an experience as the TELSAs, but he didn't have any idea what he was getting into when he had accepted that one. Now that he knew what these sorts of things entailed, these days his default answer was always a resounding 'no'.

"Okay," he said finally.

#

Violet drew open Sherlock's sock and underwear drawer and exhaled deeply—a calming effect on her nerves. When her fingertips eventually brushed against velvet towards the back of the drawer, she gasped. The texture she felt didn't match the heritage green, gold-flecked socks she could see, under which her fingers had glided. She withdrew her hand, then began carefully removing each sock roll in the back corner until they revealed the oddly-shaped bundle beneath. It was now evident that each roll in this section only contained an individual sock, rather than a pair; it was to accommodate the hidden object beneath them, without adding height to the pile.

Violet carefully placed the bundle onto the corner of the bed. There she stood stock still, ruminating on the meaning behind it. If it was John's gun, then Sherlock had been purposefully deceitful. She hated to think that of him.

But it could be a childhood artefact, something special and sentimental to him—something he may be a little embarrassed or precious about. Something she would have no business glimpsing.

Or…

A hidden present for her… a Christmas present! …purchased way too early.

Too big to be an engagement ring, she thought, deflating a little. Not that Sherlock would buy her a ring, or even think of asking her to marry him. She already knew his views on the subject of marriage by the speech he'd made at John and Mary's wedding. Death-watch beetle, indeed. By the time the wedding was over, Violet was quite sure that the words "marry me" Sherlock had drunkenly uttered after returning from John's Stag night in the days before the wedding were not the tail end of "will you marry me" but perhaps "don't expect me to ever ask you to marry me."

Violet sighed heavily. She'd stared at this mysterious object for far too long. Sherlock would be back soon.

Turning it over, she unwrapped the object from the black velvet cloth. Her heart sank when she saw the gun. Oh, Sherlock. And now she was going to have to deal with it.

By the time Sherlock's footfalls echoed up the stairwell, Violet was seated in her armchair, reading the script for _Improbity_ , the gun now hidden in a shoebox at the bottom of her closet upstairs. She'd texted John its new location, then dutifully deleted the message from her phone.

Deceit bred deceit. Lies upon lies.

She felt ill.

After last year's break up, when hiding something as seemingly innocuous as having coffee with Jake became part of the so-called evidence against her, she thought she wouldn't ever keep things from Sherlock again. Her eyes stung, so she flipped to the last few scenes, which were emotionally charged and would give her an excuse for looking upset.

"Jacob's Creek," Sherlock said, holding out the bottle of pinot gris he'd purchased along with their Chinese takeaway. "Australian," he added proudly. "Since you're going there…"

Violet hopped up from her seat, a smile growing on her face as Sherlock deposited his purchases onto the coffee table. He never failed to impress her with his knowledge of which wine to pair with what meal, even though he professed not to be a wine drinker. Since her personal trainer-imposed alcohol ban, Violet missed the one glass of wine she used to allow herself to consume during dinner, with Sherlock sometimes choosing a bottle for them. If she was blowing her diet tonight, then her alcohol abstinence went with it, they decided.

She retrieved two white wine stems from the kitchen cabinet, while Sherlock grabbed plates and cutlery. A faint whiff of cigarette smoke accompanied him as he bustled about—the real reason he volunteered to pick up their dinner. Both food and wine could've been delivered, but Sherlock said he needed 'fresh air' anyway, which meant 'a quick smoke'.

They ate, drank two glasses of wine each, discussed the logistics of tastefully filming sex scenes and Violet's near miss in the porn industry, tried new wrestling holds, had a quick single-stick joust which left one new houseplant half-mangled, their battle ending with Violet showing Sherlock some of her new boxing moves, specifically, her left hook and rear upper cut.

"Don't drop your right arm," Sherlock instructed her as Violet's left hook slammed into his outstretched palm. "That's it! And keep your eyes on me when you pivot."

Her uppercut followed. Not quite as good, but Sherlock always had Violet in fits of laughter whenever he recounted scenarios for her. Sounded like he'd been in his fair share of fights over the years.

"Make sure you dip down so your hip and foot follow…"

"What's going on?" Mrs Hudson called from the stairwell.

"And use the power in your legs," he went on. Turning to the landlady, he added, "Training, Mrs Hud-ooof!"

Sherlock went down like a sack of potatoes. Violet was surprised her fist had actually connected with his stomach. She thought he'd step back to avoid being hit as he had been doing.

"Sherlock!" she cried. "Are you all right?"

Sherlock had curled up into a ball at her feet. Mrs Hudson tutted.

"If you fall about on my furniture, I'll give you what for, young man!"

"Sherlock?" Violet called again, leaning over him.

"I'm… okay," he rasped. "Just need… a moment."

Mrs Hudson began stacking up the takeaway containers on the coffee table with another tsk.

"You two should really clean these up straightaway. The whole flat smells like garlic and ginger. And when it gets into the curtains…"

Violet immediately helped the landlady clear the table, while Sherlock lay immobile on the rug in front of the coffee table.

In the kitchen, Mrs Hudson quizzed Violet about the plot of the first episode of _Catherine Hilderness_ that had aired the previous Sunday. Since the scenes were shown out of sequence, her landlady was a bit baffled ("Back in my day, movies were less confusing."). It took a bit of explaining what scene went where, and by the time Mrs Hudson had left the kitchen a little bit clearer about the plot, Sherlock had risen to his feet and was ambling towards the bedroom.

"Are you all right?" Violet asked, following him along the passageway.

"Yes," he said, crawling onto the bed. "I had a stomach full of food when you landed that punch."

Violet was horrified she'd caused Sherlock such discomfort. After several minutes of soothing him and showering him with affection, he began returning Violet's caresses. This was one of her favourite moments in the evenings of lulls between cases, when Sherlock didn't shun alcohol, when he was relaxed and attentive—when their lovemaking was slow and drawn out, because he had all the time in the world, making her orgasm far more intense and longer-lasting.

She curled her toes as Sherlock's lips and tongue cruised lazily over her abdomen. Her whole body throbbed with a torturous ache, but she knew it would be worth the wait. As a storm slowly built inside her, Sherlock's phone rang from the bedside table.

It rang three times before he actually stopped what he was doing.

"Christ," he said, looking up from between her legs. "Sorry."

She would've reached over herself and thrown the phone across the room, but that was no guarantee the damn thing would stop ringing anyway. Sherlock pulled himself to the top of the bed, still stretched out on top of Violet and rejected the call. Violet had glanced over at his screen the moment he'd turned the phone over. She'd read _Molly Hooper_ as the caller ID.

Sherlock pressed a kiss to her cheek and murmured, "I'm going to have to start from the top again."

"No," Violet said weakly.

Sherlock emitted a devilish chuckle before setting to work once more. As his mouth rode lower, progressing more quickly than before, Violet moved restlessly beneath him, her fingers twisting the bedsheets. When his hand slipped between her legs, even with the knowledge that his tongue would soon follow, Violet gently lifted it away.

"I'm ready," she whispered.

"What? Now?"

"Yes."

Sherlock rearranged himself above Violet, creases forming in his forehead.

"But I was going to—"

Violet pulled him into her, giving him no chance to emit anything more than a satisfied groan.

She moved with him, urging him faster, fresh need building inside her. But she knew it wouldn't be enough with that phone call crowding her thoughts. It was the slow, deliberate lovemaking she had wanted, but that was not what she was going to receive. Did he want to finish quickly? Sherlock had no cases. He had to be thinking about why Molly Hooper would be ringing him after 10pm on a Friday night. Well, if he wasn't, Violet certainly was. Her soft sigh in frustration only seemed to urge Sherlock on. She was so far from reaching her own peak!

She gripped his hips anyway, her sighs turning to moans.

"Don't stop!" she gasped, arching her back, and grinding their pelvises together. What she had wanted to say was "Slow down! Start again!" Every muscle tensed in anger and frustration; pleasure distanced itself from her, but she drove Sherlock to the brink. She nearly wept upon hearing his low moans signalling the start of his own release, but she cried out with him, her breath coming in short pants. Tears pressed against her eyes when Sherlock's gentle rocking finally ceased and he lay on top of her, with Violet still clinging to him. Their hearts hammered in unison.

Sherlock pressed a soft kiss to Violet's cheek and said, "I know that's not exactly what you wanted." Violet stiffened, but he seemed oblivious. "I hope that was to your satisfaction, anyway." He chuckled then rolled from her. "Just give me half an hour, and then we'll have another slow one."

Normally, she would roll into his side at this point, excited that it was going to be another one of those nights of lazy lovemaking, but her mind still buzzed with what she had just done. Her chest heaved from her physical exertions; her skin flushed. It certainly looked like she'd finished in style.

"Violet," Sherlock said, holding out an arm for her.

Violet slid over to him, moulded her body along his side and rested her head on his chest. Her insides twisted with guilt.

Lies and deceit!

More lies!

And now this.

"I just need the bathroom," she said, sitting up and sliding from her side of the bed. "Back in a minute." Before she entered the ensuite, she waved a hand at Sherlock's phone and said, "Why don't you find out what that call was about? Must be important."

"Mm," he said, staring at the ceiling.

Violet quickly shut the bathroom door behind her before she burst into tears. He was basking in the afterglow! That's where she was supposed to be right now!

She stepped into the shower and turned the tap on with the temperature as cold as she could stand it. Her punishment for being a liar and a fraud! Sherlock Holmes was a perfect lover—so generous and infinitely creative. Entirely selfless! He'd be mortified she'd resorted to this! There was absolutely no need for her appalling behaviour. So why had she done it?

As the cold water battered her bowed head, Violet clenched and unclenched her fists. She definitely wasn't jealous of Molly Hooper. The pathologist only featured in Sherlock's cases where there were oddities concerning corpses. He barely spoke about her. And they'd been friends for years and years. But then again, sometimes when he was bored he'd trot off to Bart's. Who knows how much they'd managed to bond over a microscope slide.

Violet wiped the water out of her eyes and turned off the taps.

Another woman had phoned her boyfriend at 10pm on a Friday night, while she, Violet, was in a very vulnerable position. With her boyfriend between her legs. But still.

Why should this bother her?

Because it did.

Another woman had phoned her boyfriend at 10pm. It was that simple. And the mood had been spoiled entirely.

Violet wound a towel around her damp hair, then grabbed her dressing gown from its hook on the bathroom door.

"Yes, it fucking bothers me," she muttered to herself as she slid on her gown and fastened the sash.

Upon opening the ensuite door, she found Sherlock standing beside the bed, tucking his grey button-down shirt into his trousers.

"What are you doing?" she asked.

"I have to go out," he said.

Violet blinked, uncomprehending.

"What?"

"Something's come up," Sherlock replied, taking a seat on the bed as he pulled his shoes towards him.

"What's… happened?"

"Molly," he said, pulling on socks.

"Is she… okay?"

"What?" he asked, looking up, a frown on his face. "No… she rang… Molly… about another…" He paused and bowed his head before pinching the bridge of his nose. "Another one," he said, exhaling as if in defeat.

Violet could see he was in no state to be hounded for the details, but he wasn't exactly forthcoming with information. She watched as he slipped on first one shoe, then the other.

"Is this a case you've been working on?"

"No," he said, standing up, his expression hardening. "And that's the whole fucking problem with this. I wasn't working on it."

He retrieved the suit jacket that had been draped over the chair in the corner. As he drew it on, he glanced at Violet.

"Homeless network," he said. "The second one in a week. Christ!" Turning from her again he dropped his head and rubbed fingertips across his brow. "She was only… Not that old. Your age."

 _She?_ thought Violet.

"Sherlock, I'm sorry," she said.

"Weed," he said cryptically, straightening up before making for the door. Perplexed, Violet followed him out into the kitchen. "That's all they can be bothered using," he called back as he strode the length of the kitchen. "It's not a problem, usually. It's this… synthetic cannabinoid…"

"So where are you going?" Violet asked him as she followed him into the living room.

"Mortuary," he said, turning this way and that as he patted his pockets. He drew out his phone, then, satisfied that he had it, he shoved it back into his trouser pocket.

"I'll come with you," Violet said. "Just let me get—"

"No."

"But you shouldn't be—"

" _I don't want you there!_ "

Violet snapped her mouth shut, tears pricking her eyes.

Sherlock's expression immediately softened and he hastened over to her.

"I'm sorry," he said, reaching for her. "That came out much harsher than I intended." He rubbed her arms and attempted a smile. "Violet Hunter can't be seen there. What will people think? And besides, I'll probably visit the rest of them… Wiggins, and the others. Homeless network. They could be anywhere. I might be a while." He gave Violet a quick kiss on the cheek and added, "I'll be fine."

"I just don't want you to be… alone," Violet said, as he headed for the door.

Turning on the threshold, he said, "I won't be. I've got Molly." And with a quick wink and a half-smile, he turned and rapidly descended, leaving Violet standing on the living room rug in her dressing gown.

#


	5. A Bit of Unwanted Attention

**Chapter 5 – A Bit of Unwanted Attention**

"And why would you be terrified?" Sherlock asked, one hand cupping Violet's face as he lightly skimmed his thumb across her cheek. He could just make out her features in the half-light, as they lay together in the early hours of the morning.

"I don't know," she said, with a sigh. "I think my imagination's working overtime."

Sherlock let the silence thicken around them as Violet shuffled in closer and then turned her back to him so he could curl himself around her. Sometimes, Violet Hunter's imagination was something to be feared, he thought.

He'd found her awake when he returned from his unsuccessful search within the more dubious locations around East London for other members of his homeless network. A visit to Bart's mortuary yielded nothing more than a plastic bag of Lana's possessions, given to him by Molly, who said they would be binned otherwise. Sherlock would pass them on to Wiggins, now his sole homeless network lieutenant.

He felt Violet's deep inhale before she spoke again in a half-whisper.

"I'm worried I'll be humiliated… that Tevish will ask questions about my family… my parents… like, are they proud? I mean… how am I supposed to answer that without bringing the mood down? My mum's dead and my dad hates being my dad. I don't even think he knows who Violet Hunter is."

"Why would Tevish ask about your parents if nobody else ever has?"

"I don't know, Sherlock. He just rambles on and on, and the guest timeslot is about twenty minutes long, although there'll be other guests on the couch. He and Andrea Fabenaski talked for ages about her brother. He works for a shoe company and he designed a shoe with her face on it. And her mum owns every DVD Andrea's in. And then they talked about her sex scenes in _The Bloomsbury Circle_. You never know what he's going to ask. I mean… fucking hell…" Her voice rose and Sherlock had to lift his head away from her. "What if he asks me about _Improbity_ and shooting sex scenes with Alex Breville? That's the last conversation I want to have. It hasn't even been confirmed publicly, but I'm sure he hears about these things. They say his interviews aren't scripted, but I think that's just an excuse for him to get away with blurting out something that he wouldn't normally be allowed to ask."

"Are you… are you sure you want to do this?"

Violet was silent for a moment or two, and in that time, Sherlock felt her body relax against him.

"Yes," she said in a small voice. "I'm sure it'll be fine."

To Sherlock, she sounded entirely unconvinced.

"I think so, too," he said, tightening his hold around her. "And I'll be there… backstage."

"I know," she said, sighing.

Pressing his lips to the delicate skin behind her ear, he added, "So why don't you try going back to sleep? I can help you."

His hands began to drift in an exploratory manner, but he paused when he felt Violet stiffen.

"I… I've got something to tell you," she whispered.

"Tell me in the morning," he murmured back, distracted by the task at hand.

#

Having narrowed down Bill Wiggins's probable locations to three, Sherlock rapped on the front door of the neglected community hall, his final option. The peeling paint, split wooden boards and assorted litter fluttering on the ground all greeted him like one of their own.

 _The siren call of old habits._

The words echoed through his Mind Palace—those his brother had once uttered upon finding Sherlock, yet again, in some rundown doss house, not dissimilar to this one.

He banged on the door once more.

Ah, his early twenties, he thought somewhat fondly. When he wasn't sporting bruises and fractured metacarpals from bare knuckle boxing, he abused his body in a myriad of other ways. Good times.

And one more for luck, he said, giving the door another three raps with his fist.

"Go away," came a voice from within.

Sherlock tutted upon recognising it.

"It's me," he said.

"Shezza?"

"Yes. Open up."

"Y'not… y'not'ere with the fuzz?"

"No. Hurry up."

Billy "The Wigg" Wiggins opened the door a crack. With impatience, Sherlock shoved it open further and stepped in.

"Why are you avoiding me?" he asked.

"Don't wanna answer questions."

"It's me, remember. You answering my questions is our core business relationship." Billy turned and ambled along the passageway. "Where are you going?" Sherlock called out, before following his homeless network representative.

"Afternoon tea," Billy shot back.

He turned into the first room on the left, settling himself down onto a well-worn orange sofa. An upturned wooden crate served as a coffee table, upon which sat, amongst other things, a packet of Rizla papers, a lighter and a bag of weed.

As Billy pinched the weed between his fingers and began sprinkling it onto one of the Rizla papers, Sherlock asked, "What's that?"

"Look, it ain't Spice. Just weed. Cannabis. I don't touch that other stuff."

"Where did they get it from?" Sherlock asked, towering over Billy.

"Dunno."

Dropping to squat on his haunches to shoot Billy a deadly gaze aimed at eye level, he added, "Yes, you do. Two of your people in one week. _Our_ people. It must've been the same batch. You must know who supplied it to them."

"Yeah, maybe, but I ain't no grass," Billy replied, before picking up the joint and licking the edge of the paper.

Sherlock straightened up, fished inside his jacket for his wallet, then slipped out a fifty pound note.

Dropping it to the table, he said, "And now you are. I want a name and a location by tonight. Not the supplier. The manufacturer. Finish your tea, Wiggins, because you've got work to do."

#

The high-pitched laughter emanating from Violet's room upstairs reached Sherlock before the cocktail of perfumes and hair products did. He paused on the landing outside his own living room and gazed upwards. This, combined with the text messages he hadn't answered from Violet, made for a horror of an evening. He should've stayed out with the homeless and drug-addled members of society. It would've been a far safer prospect.

Crossing the threshold, he drew out his phone and hastily typed a reply.

 _I'm here. —SH_

At least Violet and her entourage weren't taking up his space, he thought as he made a beeline for the kettle. He may get a few minutes solitude before having to participate in this… what was it? _The Late Show_ backstage nonsense. Violet said she needed his support… she wanted him to make her laugh, to tell her what a load of rubbish it all was. This he could do. But first, a quiet beverage. He had at least—he glanced at his watch—twelve seconds before Violet noticed his reply stating that he was, in fact, on the premises, and responded accordingly.

He grabbed a tea cup… no, a mug…

Nine - eight - seven…

… and a teaspoon. Pulling the sugar canister towards him, he heard rapid footfalls on the staircase.

… four - three - two…

"Why didn't you answer my messages?"

"I did. Just now," he replied, spooning two sugars into his mug.

"I had no idea where you were! And even if you were coming back. The car's going to be here in half an hour."

"And here I am," he said, looking up and gifting Violet a broad smile.

He ran his eyes over her from head to toe. Her hair was swept up into knotted piles on her head. No other way to describe it, but he was familiar with the style. Casual. Although it had probably taken the hair stylist half an hour to mangle that lot. And her makeup was subtly understated. Another technique he'd learnt over the course of their time together. To look like she wasn't wearing makeup! A trick! Because it would all be done over again backstage.

"I'm half an hour ahead of time," he drawled. "Unless… I need to get my hair done, too?"

Violet's stony visage answered a multitude of questions for him, even ones he wasn't going to ask. But then she blinked and her features softened.

"I'm sorry about your friends," she said, clasping her hands together. "Were you able to find out anything?"

Curious, her 180 degree turnaround, Sherlock mused. And that she referred to the deceased members of his homeless network as his 'friends'.

"I'm waiting on an address from Billy," he replied.

Violet nodded, as if she knew who Bill Wiggins was. Of course she didn't. Sherlock had never referred to anyone in his network by name.

She stepped forward, lay a light hand on Sherlock's arm, then stretched up and planted a kiss on his cheek.

"Thank you for being here," she whispered.

Leaving nothing but the lingering caress of _Cleo de Thebes_ , and curiously, champagne, Violet left.

Sherlock turned his attention to his tea preparations once more.

No, this won't do, he thought. If they're already downing champagne upstairs, that's a strong indicator as to what this evening had in store for him.

After tipping the sugar from his cup back into the canister, Sherlock retrieved his Macallan Scotch Whiskey from the top shelf. The 1926 tipple had been a gift from a Korean businessman, and Sherlock had drunk a substantial portion of it when he erroneously believed Violet had been planted in his life as a spy for Jacob Venucci.

"You got me through a difficult patch," he muttered, pouring a generous amount into his coffee cup. "Don't let me down now."

Christ, how long's it going to be? _The Late Show_. How late is late?

Sherlock chugged back the contents of his mug, feeling the burn in the back of his throat and the welcome warmth in his stomach.

What if Billy messaged him while he was at the studio? And what was taking his lieutenant so long anyway? He could just imagine Bill Wiggins wading into the toxic sludge of drug distribution, the little ripples of his enquiry reaching the shores of their target before too long. Sherlock would have to act quickly once he'd received an address. So, how late was late?

Hearing multiple footfalls on the staircase from above, Sherlock quickly poured another shot of whiskey. He shoved the bottle to the far corner of the kitchen counter, tucking it away behind the blender. Strolling casually to the edge of the kitchen, he took a small sip from his mug.

"…then Beige Apple," Mandi was saying as she stopped on the living room rug, staring intently at her iPad.

Another young woman accompanied her, juggling a small case and a garment bag slung over one arm. The hair stylist, presumably. Bronnie, Bonnie, Bobby? She, too, had her eyes focussed on her own device.

"Yeah, can't wait," the woman replied. She slung the garment bag over the back of the chair adjacent to the living room table as if she owned the place.

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Oh," Mandi said, glancing up in surprise.

The hair stylist dropped her case next to Sherlock's chair(!) before sinking down into it. Sherlock stared at her in disbelief.

"Do you think we could get a smile this time?" Mandi asked him.

"Sorry… what?" Sherlock responded, dragging his eyes from the interloper to Violet's P.A.

"For the press. Look a bit less like you hate being there?"

"I _will_ hate being there."

Mandi gaped and the hair stylist looked up in interest. Sherlock turned back for the kitchen, draining the remainder of his whiskey as he did so. It was going to be a long night.

As he began rinsing out the mug in the sink, Mandi added, "You're Violet Hunter's boyfriend. You should at least act like you're being supportive."

"No," he said, placing his cup onto the draining board, "I'm Sherlock Holmes. Arrogant prick. I don't need to act like anything."

To stunned silence, Sherlock crossed the kitchen for the door to the landing. As he rapidly ascended, he heard Bronnie… Bonnie? ask, "So _that_ was Sherlock Holmes?"

In Violet's sitting room upstairs, he found her standing at the window overlooking Baker Street, her back to the door. From the way her arms were positioned, he could tell she was wringing her hands. She'd obviously told her entourage she needed a moment to herself. But what she actually needed, Sherlock thought as he crossed the room, was some Consulting Detective loving.

Slipping his arms around her, he nuzzled into her neck.

"You're the most talented actress I know," he said warmly. He felt her relax against him as she exhaled. "I remember you being asked if there was anyone special in your life… Brekky TV, I think it was… and you replied that you were far too busy, and who'd put up with you. Carefully sidestepped the question. You did that quite effortlessly."

"I know," Violet replied, sighing.

"You'll be fine."

"Mm." She rubbed his arm, then turned her head a little. "Do I smell whiskey?" she asked.

"Yes, I've been bathing in it."

Violet turned around in his arms, furrows appearing between her brows.

"Mandi's worried you're going to be photographed frowning."

Sherlock tutted.

"Why would I be photographed at all?" he replied. "I thought I was going to be backstage."

Smoothing her hands over his lapels and dropping her gaze, Violet replied, "There may be some paps and fans outside the studio when we arrive. Probably for Beige Apple, but we could—"

"Who?"

"Beige Apple. The… band? They're guests tonight as well."

Her raised eyebrows indicated she was still surprised about his ignorance of so-called famous people. He never showed surprise when she failed to recognise the names of those _he_ considered famous— the Camden Garroter, for example.

"Anyway," she went on, "she's been going through online photos of us together, and she thinks you always look angry."

"So she wants me to smile continuously, like a deranged lunatic?"

"No!" Violet said, her lips curving upward. "Just don't frown." She reached up and attempted to smooth the lines Sherlock assumed would've appeared between his brows just now. "If you don't feel like smiling, then have a neutral expression. Or better still, wear sunglasses."

"I don't wear sunglasses."

"You should," Violet said, with a chuckle. "I know I've seen a pair somewhere."

"They're for disguise purposes only." Along with the black jeans and boots Violet gleefully discovered one day.

"We'll grab them for today," she said, patting his chest.

At least he had finally made her smile. Job done.

"Are you ready?" she asked him.

"No."

#

Sherlock could see the crowd of onlookers and photographers as they turned into the alleyway alongside the studio. Members of both groups jostled behind barriers, while studio heavies stood as sentries at both barriers and to the glass doors that led into the studio.

How ridiculous this whole spectacle! There was quite clearly underground parking available, but no. The whole industry was obsessed with things like "arrivals". Celebrities disembarking their vehicles. For Christ's sake!

"Ooh," Mandi said, indicating through the passenger window. "They still have their Beige Apple posters. The lads must be arriving after us."

Violet squeezed Sherlock's hand, something she'd been doing intermittently throughout the journey whenever she felt anxious, he assumed. Beige Apple, Sherlock had been informed by Mandi, were some kind of super-group (musicians!) who had been around for decades, and their lead singer, Melon (for fuck's sake) was a star in his own right. It would be the band's first appearance together in over eight years. So it wasn't just Tevish Stewart's interview questions and the presence of a studio audience that stressed Violet. It was also sitting on the same couch as the UK super-group and their fruity lead singer.

Sherlock found himself standing on the pavement next to a security guard, watching Violet turn this way and that for the cameras. They collectively yelled opposing instructions to her, to turn left or right or 'over here'. Like many farmers commanding a single sheep dog. How ridiculous. Nancy Dundas, the assistant producer who had greeted them earlier, led Violet away to sign autographs to fans vying for the best position.

"How long have you been standing here?" Sherlock asked one of the bouncers nearest him.

"A few hours," came the reply. "Some of them have been here since 6am." He indicated the fans with a nod of his head.

Sherlock scoffed under his breath.

"Beige Apple," the bouncer said, by way of an explanation.

"Mm," Sherlock agreed knowingly.

Suddenly, Violet was beckoning him and he thought he heard someone, or a few someones, in the crowd of fans calling his name. Many faces were turned towards him and his stocky companion. His head began to buzz when a voice in a Northern accent said in a loud whisper behind him, "Run along, Sherlock Holmes, arrogant prick. Now's your chance to frown."

Sherlock gritted his teeth, but tried to ignore Mandi who had come up beside him. Violet was quite clearly waiting for him.

"You Sherlock Holmes?" the bouncer queried him, as if he suddenly realised who he'd been chatting to. "You'd better get over there then, mate."

Sherlock blinked a few times, thankful his discomfort was hidden behind a pair of sunglasses. Feeling stiff and awkward as he walked, he made his way over to Violet and the fans who were holding out photos of the actress from various publicity stills. Some held _Anuket's Children: The Rise of the Five_ comics, too, he noted.

"Here," Violet said, her expression bright with affection. She took Sherlock by the hand and gestured to a couple of young women who held photos of him and Violet taken on the red carpet at the TELSAs. "Do you mind?" she asked. "They'd really love your autograph, too."

Violet had already signed the photos, he observed. She offered him a smile—a warm, genuine one, not the fake one she'd been giving to her fans. Her eyes were full of hope, though, and he knew she was counting on him not to be a dick.

Sherlock drew in a steadying breath, his mind at war with the scenario displayed before him. Absolutely ridiculous. But now was clearly not the time to tell Violet that. Was it?

He watched her for a few seconds as she answered her fans' questions, scrawling away on the photos thrust in front of her. She thanked them for coming, a smile fixed to her face.

The girl in front of him waved a permanent marker in the air, bringing him back to the task at hand. Sherlock held his breath, lest he say something derogatory, and took the proffered pen, quickly signing his name. Another photo was thrust in front of him and he dutifully signed that one, too.

"That's enough," he muttered, feeling dizzy about what had just happened. He handed the marker to the first girl and stepped back from the barrier.

He tried to tune out. The fans. All yelling for Violet's attention. Or his. He would ignore it all. Folding his hands neatly behind his back, he scanned the crowd.

"Thank you," said Nancy, the assistant producer, who had sidled up to him. "Perhaps we should have you on the couch as well."

"Thank you, but no," Sherlock said, in case there was a chance she was serious, and therefore he ought to make his own wishes known.

Sherlock noticed a burly gentleman leaning over the crowd of (mostly) young girls and women, thrusting his photo on top of theirs. The man moved over once more and repeated the action with a different picture, with Violet oblivious to the fact that she was signing another one for the same man.

Sherlock stepped forward and gently took Violet by the elbow.

"You've already done this one," he said to her.

"Sorry?" she asked. "Oh, thank you," she said in response to a comment by one adoring fan.

Sherlock flicked the man's photo aside and glared at him.

"You've had three photos signed," he said.

"Steady on, mate!" the man protested, still insisting on holding his photo on top of everyone else's.

"Sherlock," Violet said, in a desperate whisper beneath the canopy of fan noise.

But Sherlock held the photo away with the back of his hand, glaring at the man all the while.

…Until he realised his steely gaze would have no effect behind fucking sunglasses.

"We're finished here," Sherlock said to Violet. "They're waiting for you… the studio."

He held out an arm, effectively blocking Violet from the row of demanding fans, directing her to turn and accompany him away from the barriers. As she bid a goodbye and a thank you to the crowd for turning out this evening, she allowed Sherlock to escort her towards the entrance.

"Don't say a word!" she hissed, a contradictory smile still plastered on her face as they strode along the footpath. "I know he was an autograph seller. I just can't see them in amongst everyone. It's too chaotic. It's easier just to sign away."

Inside was blissfully less noisy but almost as busy, with the assistant producer and various nobodies ushering Violet Hunter and her entourage (of which Sherlock was a member!) through the building. They were shown where her dressing room was located, as well as the Green Room (it's not green!), the passageway that led behind the stage, and additional bathroom facilities.

"Tevish will be along in a moment," Nancy informed them, before she introduced another assistant called Bevan, who would help them with anything they wanted.

Good, thought Sherlock, already feeling the walls of Violet's dressing room pressing in on him. He may need Bevan's services before too long. Bonnie was removing Violet's dress from its garment bag, while Mandi was looking longingly down the corridor.

"I might go for a wander," she said distractedly, running her fingers through her long, red strands.

Maybe he should have a wander, too. Wander outside. Jump into a cab and drive away.

"I think I might need some fresh air," Sherlock said, as Violet removed her jacket.

Violet shot him a look, just as Bevan returned with a bottle of mineral water, since Violet had insisted they needed more than just sparkling wine to keep their thirsts quenched.

"Bevan," she said, just as Sherlock opened his own mouth. "Do you have a designated smoking area?"

Sherlock clamped his mouth shut. How did she know?

"Oh, well, if you'll just follow me," Bevan said, gesturing along the passageway.

"No, not for me," Violet replied, her eyes flicking to Sherlock.

Bevan gave Sherlock the once over, and evidently liked what he saw. The assistant stood taller and lifted his chin.

"Follow me, sir," he said, sashaying away.

The "designated smoking area" was a small balcony outside the emergency exit. Bevan told him there was a larger one, but it was often crowded with studio staff, mostly. Sherlock was thankful for Bevan deducing he would rather have a quiet smoke away from the general riff-raff.

After he'd lit up and luxuriated in the dizzying effects of nicotine, Sherlock's phone buzzed. His heart jolted when he saw that it was a message from Billy.

With an address.

Sherlock took several long drags on his cigarette, contemplating his next move. Of course he'd need to respond right away. But how to leave Violet?

Surely she would see the importance of this case over her need to have Sherlock hold her hand. She was at a studio. These were her people. Her industry. She'd already braved the fans and photographers. Managed exceedingly well, in fact. It was Sherlock who had needed his hand held.

After dropping his cigarette into the receptacle next to the door, Sherlock re-entered the building.

"You just missed Tevish," Violet said as Sherlock strode into the dressing room. She was now seated in front of the mirrors, with Bonnie struggling to undo the mess she had made of Violet's hair earlier.

"And… how was he?"

"He's lovely," Violet said, smiling at Sherlock's reflection.

"Ah… good."

"I still don't know what he's going to ask, though. So…"

So she was still feeling anxious, her unspoken words told Sherlock.

"But he wanted to meet you," Violet added, looking up at Sherlock through her lashes as her head remained bowed while Bonnie teased out several strands at a time.

"Meet me?"

"Yes. And he seemed really disappointed you weren't here. I told him you were outside having a smoke. I guess he didn't find you?"

"No… but I wasn't in the real designated smoking area."

He cleared his throat and threw a meaningful glance at the hair stylist, who's eyes remained focussed on her client's hairdo, while her ears strained to listen to their conversation, no doubt.

"Could I… have a word?" Sherlock asked.

Violet studied Sherlock in the mirror. He raised his eyebrows a little.

"Bonnie, could you…" she began.

"I'll just fetch you a plate of food from the Green Room," Bonnie said, with a quick smile directed at Violet.

She downed tools and exited the room, carefully avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and ventured closer.

"I've just been given word about the case. The Spice case."

"Spice case?"

"It's the name they've given this group of synthetic cannabinoids. The cause of death of two of my… two members of my homeless network. I really should go and chase up this lead."

"What, now?"

"We've been here hours already."

"Not hours."

"Feels like it."

Violet slipped out of her chair and approached the mirror. She leant forward to carefully wipe something from her lower lashes. Stray mascara, probably.

"I should follow this lead," Sherlock went on. "It's important."

"More important than this, I suppose," Violet replied, turning her back on the mirror.

Was that sarcasm? Sherlock couldn't tell.

"Yes, it is," he replied. "It's quite serious. And a bit dangerous."

Sherlock studied Violet's non-verbal response. He could possibly have her attention now, just like the early days of their courtship.

"You could come with me," he prompted, hopeful.

"You wouldn't let me go to the mortuary with you," Violet replied, folding her arms across her chest and leaning against the counter that ran the width of the room. "You said Violet Hunter couldn't be seen there."

"You would be a lookout in a darkened street. Not likely to get recognised as that actress on the telly."

"A lookout? You want me to be a lookout? Sherlock, I'm about to get interviewed on the most popular chat show in the UK. I can't just leave."

She pushed off from the counter and crossed to the tray where the drinks sat.

"Why wouldn't you leave this?" Sherlock asked as Violet proceeded to pour herself a glass of sparkling wine. "This is… ridiculous… absolutely… pointless… rubbish."

"I knew you'd think that!"

"Wait… you told me to say that."

Mandi walked back into the room at that moment. She hesitated when she saw Violet and Sherlock glaring at each other. The redhead's eyes narrowed at Sherlock.

"Y'all right, Vi?" she asked.

"Fine, Mandi," Violet said, exhaling forcefully.

Mandi flopped herself down into an armchair in the corner of the dressing room.

"Beige Apple aren't here yet," she announced.

Sherlock hadn't taken his eyes from Violet. He wanted her to agree with him about this farcical situation in which they'd found themselves.

"It looks like you've made up your mind," Violet said. She leant towards Sherlock, steadied herself with a light hand on his arm, then planted a kiss on his cheek. "I'll see you later, then."

Sherlock blinked uncomprehendingly, but Violet strolled back over to her seat, drink in hand.

"Can you tell Bonnie to come back in now?" she said to Mandi. "She's in the Green Room."

"Yeah, all right," Mandi said, rising. "Probably tweeting. Y'know, you should fire her. I'm sure she's tweeting about this."

Passing Sherlock, she added, "Can you investigate her? She's not on Twitter under her own name, but I've seen her on it. I'm pretty sure she took a selfie when she was sitting in your armchair. It's not professional!"

With that final comment, Mandi left the dressing room.

"Violet," Sherlock said.

"I said I'll see you later," she remarked, looking down at her own phone's screen. "I'll be fine, Sherlock."

He'd been dismissed, it seemed. His face burning, Sherlock exited into the corridor. She had no idea! How did this even compare! Whatever happened to the excitement… the danger! … of working on cases together!

And the post-case sex!

As Sherlock strode along the corridor, he realised he'd let Violet down as well. He said he'd support her. He'd alleviate her worries about her interview.

Tevish Stewart.

Sherlock hadn't even got around to investigating the man—the chat show host who had been disappointed he'd missed meeting Sherlock Holmes?

Sherlock turned in the opposite direction, a new determination in his stride. He had one more thing to do before leaving the studio.

#


	6. The Danger was the Fun Part

**Chapter 6 - The Danger was the Fun Part**

Violet's head throbbed. She knew she'd overdone the champagne. Bit of a celebration after the show. It was a good thing she didn't have to train on Sundays. But why was she awake now?

A ringing phone, dammit.

Violet grabbed it and hauled herself into a sitting position. The caller ID indicated it was John. She frowned and swiped to answer it, throwing a glance at the digital clock on Sherlock's side of the bed. An empty side.

1:16am.

"Hello?" she croaked.

"Violet! Sorry! Did I wake you?"

"Mm. 's'okay."

"Look. Sorry to ring you at this hour. Is Sherlock there?"

Violet wiped at her eyes, struggling to clear her foggy head. So many alarm bells were ringing now. The earliness of the hour. An empty bed. John wanting Sherlock.

"No," she said, staring at the place where Sherlock ought to have lain. Clearly he hadn't come home yet. "Why?" she asked. "I mean, he's not next to me, but…" With tremendous effort, Violet sat up fully and drew the covers aside. "I can check the rest of the flat." She swung her legs to the floor, hearing John mutter his own curse word.

"Greg Lestrade phoned me," John explained, as Violet padded to the door in the semi-darkness.

John Watson was talking to her and she was completely naked. Weird. She didn't always sleep in the nude, but it was the expectation of Sherlock returning at some stage, and the need to clear the air between them with cuddling, that prompted her this time.

"He got a call from Sherlock to attend a residence," John continued. "Something about drugs… I dunno. Manufacturing drugs on the premises, maybe. Greg wanted me to check on Sherlock. He had to order him to leave….again."

Violet grabbed her dressing gown from the back of the bedroom door, her insides roiling. Juggling the phone between her hands and the crook of her neck, she drew the gown around her.

"He was… he was following up on that Spice thing," Violet volunteered, her mind scrambling for everything Sherlock had told her before he'd left her dressing room at the studio in the early evening.

Her heart ached when she remembered their argument. No. Small disagreement. She hadn't really been listening to him. Too busy thinking (and worrying!) about her damn interview. An interview that turned out to be pretty benign by Tevish Stewart's usual standards. Sherlock had said the case could be dangerous. And he'd wanted her there with him! Fucking hell. What had he walked into?

"He had an address," she went on, exiting the bedroom and striding through the kitchen. She made several attempts at tying the sash on her gown. The rest of the flat was dark, cold and lifeless. "I'm sure he's not here."

"Violet," John said, sighing into the phone. "He had a gun."

A cold hand gripped Violet's heart.

"Did you…" John began, but Violet knew what he was going to ask as she rounded the entrance into the very empty living room. "Did you hide my gun in a good place? You said it was in a shoe box. I hadn't got round to picking it up."

No, of course he wouldn't have. It was only yesterday she'd found it and messaged him about it. Her heart thumping, Violet left the living room for the stairs.

"It was underneath a few other boxes," she replied, puffing lightly as she took the stairs two at a time. And now her head was pounding along with her heart. Stupid alcohol. She hadn't overindulged last night, but she couldn't tolerate as much these days because of her recent abstinence. Perhaps that was a good thing.

Reaching the landing, she strode into her room, flicking on the light. Then a bolt of fear struck her.

"John," she said, stopping in front of her closet. "Is… anyone… hurt?"

"No," he replied.

"And Sherlock?"

"He's… fine… Greg said. A bit manic, I think. Dunno, really. That's why Greg phoned me. To check on him. Doesn't he have your number?"

Why would Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade from New Scotland Yard have her number, Violet thought darkly as she opened the closet door. But he had John Watson's number. So…

"We're not…" she replied. "I… I don't think we've hit it off, to be perfectly honest." Because D.I. Lestrade thought she was a flaky actress for sympathising with the star-crossed lovers in the Frances Carfax case, and Violet had spoken rudely to him after the assault on her _Regency Road_ co-star, Chenoa Burton. No, not really hit it off at all.

As Violet drew out the first shoe box, she asked John if he had tried to phone Sherlock.

"Goes straight through to his messages," John replied. "Must've switched his phone off."

Some of the boxes were empty, and Violet was sure she'd put the gun, wrapped in an old scarf, with a pair of sandals she didn't really like.

"What happened, exactly?" she asked as she continued pulling out boxes and opening their lids.

"Ah… he entered a house in Ealing, pulled a gun on a few blokes, held them hostage until another man returned. Something like that. It was the last guy he was actually after."

"What… so he terrorised these other innocent men with a gun?"

"Yeah… dunno."

A lead weight settled in the pit of Violet's stomach.

Oh, Sherlock.

She drew out the last box.

"No," she said wearily, spying a pair of suede wedge heel pumps. "It's not here."

"Shit," came John's reply. "Well… I'll come round. Maybe he'll be home by the time I get there."

Violet also tried to ring Sherlock, leaving him a short message to ring her because "everyone's worried. _I'm_ worried!" She freshened up, took a couple of paracetamol for her headache, dressed in casual gear and was just putting on the kettle when she heard the front door click shut. After hastening to the living room doorway, she exhaled in disappointment at the sight of John Watson rounding the corner on the stairs.

"Sorry. Just me," he said with a grim smile.

They settled in armchairs with cups of tea—Violet in Sherlock's, John in his old one. John occasionally drummed his fingers on the armrest, while Violet stared into the unlit fireplace.

"I was on _The Late Show_ ," she said, breaking the silence.

"Really?" John replied. "Tonight?"

"Yep," she said, giving him a reluctant smile. "Tevish had me playing Charades with the guys from Beige Apple and Sally somebody… sorry can't remember her last name—the retired Olympian figure skater."

"You're joking! Beige Apple? With Melon and… the guys? Why didn't I know about that?"

"It'll be on YouTube eventu—"

The front door slammed shut. Rapid footfalls echoed up the stairwell. Both Violet and John were on their feet, cups of tea abandoned on respective side-tables.

#

Sherlock resisted the urge to whistle as he ascended the stairs. It was almost 2:30 in the morning after all. He wasn't that insensitive.

But he was on fire!

There were no other words for it. As he rounded the staircase he wondered if he could nudge Violet awake. His success made for spectacular sex! If she put on that dress she wore to the Watson's wedding, and he donned his black jea—

He paused upon seeing the light emitted from his living room. Two figures came into view as he neared the top.

"Ah," he said, crossing the landing, his eyes drawn to Violet. "Let me see. Lestrade phoned John, and John phoned you."

"Yep, clever deduction," said John, his voice devoid of humour.

"Are you all right?" Violet asked.

"So where is it?" demanded John.

Sherlock tutted and rolled his eyes before reaching into the back of his waistband. He held out John's gun, which the ex-army Captain grabbed, swore, and swiftly ejected the magazine.

"It was loaded!" John said, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Of course it was loaded. Why would I go to a drug house with an unloaded weapon."

At Violet's gasp, he stepped closer to her, and said in a low voice, "I'm fine, by the way, thank you." He lightly touched her elbow before pressing a kiss to her cheek. She smelt deliciously like her lotions and deodorant, with faint traces of white wine.

"I need a shower," he said, leaving the pair for the kitchen. He hoped Violet would join him and that John Watson would piss off home.

As he made his way through the kitchen, he could hear the low rumble of John's voice. Probably letting Violet know she could ring him if Sherlock acted like he'd gone off the rails. Good old John. Always ready to impart words of wisdom when it came to the loose cannon that was Sherlock Holmes.

He entered the bedroom, emitting a sigh of relief upon hearing John's footsteps fading on the stairs.

Sherlock slipped off his jacket and draped it over the chair in the corner. When Violet strode into the bedroom, he was just unbuttoning a cuff.

"Did you terrorise a house full of innocent people with a gun?"

"Terrorise is a bit of a strong word," he said, working at the second cuff button and giving Violet an easy smile.

"You held them hostage! Those poor people!"

"Oh, relax. There's nothing poor about them. And they were hardly hostages. We watched telly." As the memory of the evening flooded back to him, his smile stretched wider. "We watched _you_."

As creases appeared between Violet's brows, Sherlock thought he ought to explain.

#

 _ **Four hours earlier**_

"I'm looking for a man named Jonah Rance," Sherlock said.

"He ain't here," said the gamer on the bean bag, apparently the mouthpiece of the group.

"Forgive me if I don't immediately take your word for it," Sherlock said. "I'll need to see everyone's ID. _Photo_ ID." As hands began to lower, he added, " _One_ at a time."

"I knew that cunt'd bring the fuzz here one day," muttered a figure standing in the entranceway.

Sherlock nodded to the young man on his right.

"You first."

The youth stood and went to reach into his back pocket. Sherlock ordered him to stop and turn around first.

"Don't show them," the man said, upon holding out his driving licence to Sherlock.

"I've seen it!" bean bag boy said with a laugh. "You look like you're stoned!"

"Fuck off."

After Sherlock had satisfied himself that none of the young men present were Jonah Rance, he asked when the Spice manufacturer was likely to return.

"A coupla hours," bean bag boy said, now identified as Finn. "If it's his gear you're wantin', it's in the back. We ain't allowed in there."

The young men were all quick to denigrate Rance and his work in the so-called "legal high" drug manufacturing business. They had no part in it, apparently.

"You don't need to hang about," Finn told Sherlock. "We can ring you when Rance gets back."

"I'd rather wait for him, if it's all the same to you," Sherlock said. He nodded to the television screen and said, "Put your game back on."

"All right!" Finn exclaimed. A couple of the others groaned.

After about ten minutes of alternately researching on his phone any information related to synthetic cannabinoids and watching Finn shoot random objects, Sherlock found he couldn't stand the artificial noises any longer. Pacing behind the sofa, he scratched the back of his head with the gun.

"Okay, that's enough of that," he said. "Can you do something else?"

"Watch telly," offered the man called Mick from his position on the sofa.

"Yeah, I'm waiting for The Late Show," said Harry, now perched on a dining chair brought into the room from the kitchen, instead of his previous post standing in the entranceway. "Beige Apple are on an' all."

"Oh, fuck man! Beige Apple are so gay!" proclaimed Finn.

Sherlock's ears pricked up at the mention of _The Late Show_.

"Put the TV on," he said.

Perhaps now was a good opportunity to kill two birds with one stone: work the case, and check that _The Late Show_ host had kept to his word.

#

"You… you watched The Late Show?"

"Bits of it," Sherlock replied, his mouth twitching into a smile. "It's still a load of rubbish. Can't see the point, really."

"Yes. I know," Violet said, then she shrugged. "But that doesn't change the fact that I'm still angry with you. A gun, Sherlock! I was so worried when I heard."

"Not as worried as I was when you confronted Sebastian Moran in Jake Venucci's nightclub."

Violet's eyes became hooded.

"Firstly, that was your plan—"

"Our plan."

"—and I didn't go there without backup, waving a gun around! I would never point a gun at someone. Wouldn't even think to take one along. You deliberately searched this flat for John's. It was pre-meditated."

"Yes… about that," Sherlock said, standing taller. "You went through my sock drawer, and you were careful about it. Replacing every sock exactly as it was to keep my sock index intact. Wrapping the velvet cloth that once held the gun around a lump of tin foil? Now that's deliberate and purposeful deception."

"…John asked me to do it."

"Clearly."

"But now I know why you and guns aren't a good mix."

"Since when is anyone and a gun a good mix?"

"It could've ended badly."

"Anything can end badly."

"Stop it."

Her moist eyes and arched brows were strong indicators she was upset. And her nose had turned that distinct pink shade of alarm. Sherlock had to turn this around. Make her remember how exciting his life—their life—could be!

Narrowing the gap between them, he lowered his voice and said, "This is me, we're talking about, remember. This is what I do. It's what I thrive on. Complex puzzles and dangerous situations. You know this. You've been a part of my world for long enough, and not just as a witness, standing by. Entering the home of a suspected paedophile teacher? Sound familiar?" Violet's eyes began to darken, so Sherlock continued, reaching for her. "Interrogating murder suspects in the underworld of race fixing. Assaulting your would-be rapist. Provoking Manchester's seedy underbelly. Extracting damning information out of a gangster ex-boyfriend? That was all you!" Lending a rough edge to his voice, he added, "You should've been there tonight. With me!"

The fire in her eyes had well and truly been lit.

Violet yanked Sherlock down by the collar, capturing his mouth with hers, ravenous and impatient. Momentarily shocked, but infinitely delighted, he fed off her. There was nothing soft and sweet about her right now, he thought, as his own hunger surged and deepened. He gathered her in closer, wanting to devour all of her, but Violet suddenly pulled out of their kiss before roughly shoving Sherlock to the bed.

"Ch-rist!"

Violet was upon him. Buttons pinged as she tore open his shirt.

"Vi—le" he began, his bare chest heaving.

"Don't ever do that again!"

Sherlock's pulse rate accelerated as Violet assaulted his neck.

Don't do what again, he wondered. Oh… the gun… thing.

Violet's hands streaked a possessive path along his torso. Heat slashed his stomach. He needed this—this confirmation from Violet. And now he knew this was the life for her, too. The one she ought to be sharing with him.

"Is this a…" he began, breathless with desire. Her actions had slowed to a torturous pace, allowing Sherlock to catch his breath. "…punishment?" he finished.

Her mouth and fingers blazed a trail, knowing where he craved to be touched. As she descended lower, arousing him beyond measure, he managed to add, "Not… really…a…" He paused to sigh in satisfaction. "… dis… incentive," he finished, his words finally dying on a grateful moan.

#

Violet could feel Sherlock's heart pounding in sync with her own as he held her in a loose embrace. With her back to him, his breath came warm and intermittent on her neck.

She could easily fall asleep right now—tired and sated. Exhausted, even. Sherlock—again in his unselfish and creative ways—had fought back to regain the upper hand. Those hands… that clever, clever tongue… But only for a moment, before Violet reclaimed her position. And so on it went, until they both came together in a final explosion of passion.

Violet drew in a deep breath and sighed contentedly.

But she better put things right about the other night, while sex was still in the air, settling about them like specks of dust.

"Sherlock," she whispered.

"Mm?"

"I have to tell you something."

"Mm. Does it need the light on?"

"No."

Sherlock momentarily released his hold on Violet to twist around and click off the bedside lamp.

But then again, Violet thought, her confession would need him to see her expression—to see how contrite she was and witness the truth in her eyes that it would never ever happen again.

"Sorry, yes," she said. "I do need the light on."

She felt pangs of regret when Sherlock rolled away from her this time to turn on the lamp. Violet turned to her side to face him.

Sherlock scrubbed at his face with his hands. Perhaps he'd even fallen asleep in those first few minutes post-coitus and she had woken him. It was after three. Best get it out, then.

"It's about the other night."

Sherlock rolled to his side to face her. He raised his brows as if to encourage Violet to continue—as if he was far too tired to pre-empt her words or prompt her in his usual fashion.

"Friday night," she went on, her stomach coiling itself in knots, "when we were in the middle of… well, the phone rang and then I… The mood was gone, I think, for me, anyway…"

Creases appeared in Sherlock's brow, indicating she was doing a lousy job of this.

"It was the phone," she continued. "It… it sort of threw me right out. So, I may have pretended, a bit, to be more aroused than I was."

"Pretended," Sherlock repeated slowly. "Pretended when?"

"At the end, mostly."

Sherlock appeared to ruminate on her words before he spoke again.

"You're talking about sex the other night."

"Y-yes." God, was he only just catching on? He really must have fallen asleep. "W-we'd started…" Violet went on. "I was so… so into it… you know I am… always… and then the phone rang. I saw it was Molly. And then after that… I couldn't feel it. I mean, I was getting there… but I couldn't focus. It would take me too long. And you seemed… and then I…"

"Pretended?" he said again.

"Sherlock… I faked my orgasm. With you. That night."

Sherlock studied Violet's eyes, but it looked as if he could see straight through them.

"Why would you do that?" he asked.

"I just told you," Violet replied, her heart sinking. He was going to get really upset. She could sense it. "The phone call," she continued. "You've had no interesting cases. So I started worrying you were thinking about Molly and why she'd called at 10 o'clock, and I just wanted you to finish. I couldn't keep up and…. What?"

A smile had started to grow on Sherlock's face. He reached for Violet, his eyes glistening. And then he started to chuckle, a laugh that began as a rumble deep within.

"What?" Violet asked again.

"You did yourself a great disservice," he said, his expression warm and affectionate.

Violet's breath hitched.

"I know," she said.

"Do you know what you missed out on?"

"Of course I do."

Sherlock shook his head, his face still bright with affection.

"That's not like you," he said. "You usually take what you want. Demand it, in fact."

"I know. I'm sorry." She heaved out a sigh. "It wasn't about you or your… abilities."

"Of course it wasn't."

"You're not upset?"

"Upset? No. A little disappointed you missed out."

Violet could feel the tension leave her in waves.

"I thought you'd be mad at me," she said, "or that you'd think you were somehow… inadequate."

"Me? Inadequate? When have I ever displayed a lack of confidence in the bedroom?"

His broad smile warmed Violet's heart.

"I'm sorry," she said again. "I'll never do that again. It was stupid of me."

"Yes, it was."

Her heart felt full and buoyant. It had been an error of judgement on Friday night, but her decision to confess had brought her peace of mind. Sherlock still managed to surprise her with his tolerance and understanding of the decisions she made based on her own stupidity.

"I love you."

They said it at the same time, prompting them to regard each other for a moment. Violet's eyes stung, but before too long they burst out laughing together. Sherlock stretched forward and planted a kiss on Violet's lips.

"Go to sleep," he said. "And tomorrow morning, I'll wake you so slowly you'll wish you could fake it just to end the torment."

"Don't," she whispered back. Then after a few seconds consideration, she added, "Promise?"

#

 _ **Author's Note:**_

 _Jonah Rance is derived from John Rance, a police constable in ACD's A Study in Scarlet. I merely borrowed and modified the name for no other reason than the need for a name._


	7. You're Really Not Gonna Like This

**Chapter 7 - You're Really Not Gonna Like This**

Sherlock swiftly rose from the bed.

"Sherlock?" he heard again through the doorway, a distinctive male voice floating from the other side of his flat.

Opening his bedroom door a crack, he called out to the visitor, "One moment!"

Jesus Christ. How fucking early is it? A quick glance at the clock told him it wasn't that early. In the past, he would wake at dawn, unless of course, that was the time he was returning home from wherever. Ever since acquiring a girlfriend, his time for rising varied widely.

Sherlock pulled on pyjamas then grabbed his dressing gown from the hook behind the door. Violet stirred, crumpled and sultry. Sherlock's heart stuttered and he felt her magnetic pull on him. That's where he should be right now. Curled around her, gently waking her with meaningful prodding.

Violet murmured something that sounded vaguely like, "What is it?"

"Shh," he replied. "Nothing. Go back to sleep."

Damn Lestrade and whatever drama had prompted him to visit this morning. And of course, Mrs Hudson had let him in, thinking Sherlock would be up and about by now.

This better be a fucking new case, he thought as he exited the bedroom. A spectacular case. A murder committed in a creative and seemingly unsolvable way.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade stood at the window behind the living room table, the curtain parted in his hand as he surveyed Baker Street.

"Morning," Sherlock said in a neutral voice. When the D.I. turned around, he added, "Bit early for a Sunday."

Lestrade usually wore one of three expressions. Haggard and desperate, Sherlock's personal favourite, meant an unsolved case was taking its toll on the Scotland Yard detective, prompting him to seek Sherlock's help. Expression number two, one of friendly expectation and ready for banter, or (if John Watson was around) teasing or ridiculing Sherlock, was his least favourite. The third Sherlock could easily ignore. It was the latter the detective wore this morning: a Scotland Yard C.I.D. detective inspector not to be messed with. Rules, regulations, procedures.

Boring.

"Firstly," the D.I. said. "Since when do you even know what day it is, and secondly, you never sleep in."

A hint of a smile graced Sherlock's lips. An opportunity to make Lestrade uncomfortable.

"I… wasn't sleeping," he lied. The D.I. didn't need to know he actually had been asleep. It was Sherlock's original intention to languidly wake his girlfriend with a round of morning sex. He'd promised her.

"Uh… well," Lestrade spluttered. His eyes drifted to Sherlock's neck and remained there a split second longer than was natural, making Sherlock feel self-conscious. Wait… did Violet…?

And the Met detective was actually turning pink. It was just like Lestrade not to take Sherlock's relationship seriously—to forget somebody else actually shared Sherlock's flat and more specifically, his bed. He probably thought the Consulting Detective had done with dating that flaky over-sensitive actress from _Regency Road_.

"I was… on my way to the office," Lestrade managed to stammer. Recomposing himself and standing taller, he continued. "To do paperwork. Clear up this mess from last night. I want to make sure I have all the details so there are no holes in my fabrication." When Sherlock opened his mouth to retort, Lestrade interrupted with, "Yes, fabrication. To cover your… vigilante antics."

"Vigilante antics," Sherlock scoffed. "I thought this was all dealt with last night. Why are we still talking about it? I handed you an illegal drug lab, complete with the owner of said lab."

"While you were in possession of an illegal firearm. And you used it to unlawfully detain a group of men."

"Unlawfully detain? Four of them were right where they wanted to be—in front of the 'telly' playing computer games. And the last—I simply made a citizen's arrest after discovering his stash of cocaine in the back room."

"Right then," Lestrade said, reaching into his pocket and pulling out his official-looking notepad and a pen.

"You're actually going to take a statement from me now?" Sherlock asked.

"No. You're going to tell me what happened, and I'm going to write down what sounds the least likely to get you arrested."

"Didn't I just tell you?"

"Why were you there?" Lestrade asked, emitting a long-suffering sigh.

"To buy research chemicals."

Lestrade's stare told Sherlock the Scotland Yard detective knew that labelling their products as 'research chemicals' in the legal high market were ways retailers could get around selling the new psychoactive substances—manufactured drugs that were supposed to mimic the effects of Class A and B drugs such as cocaine, methamphetamines and cannabis. What punters did with the products once they left the shop was none of their concern.

"Why not go to a head shop?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Could get recognised. The press love taking photos of Violet and me doing boring things like sitting in a cafe, and… shopping."

"You could be buying an e-cig. Some of those old school head shops are seeing where the market lies. They still sell tobacco and Rizla papers after all."

"I'd rather die than be seen 'vaping'."

Lestrade made a few scribbles on his notepad, murmuring, "Not really a plausible story as to why you attended the house and not a head shop."

"I don't like to queue."

Lestrade locked his gaze onto Sherlock's, his eyes narrowing.

"Unofficially," the D.I. said, snapping his notepad shut, "did you trace the original source of the Spice that caused the death of two of your homeless network to that supplier? Is that why you were there? I'd hate to think you were trying to substitute cocaine for this… this synthetic… thing. And what would I tell your brother?"

"It's called 3-FPM. And no, I've never used it, and I wasn't there for that purpose. I received intel on the supplier of the tainted Spice. His arrest was only warranted due to the fact that he wanted to expand into the illegal highs. I wanted him off the streets."

"And now you've shut him down, so case closed."

Sherlock furrowed his brow.

"Case not closed, Detective Inspector. For you perhaps, but I—"

Lestrade's expression hardened.

"Sherlock, you can't go off on your own!" he said.

"I do when Scotland Yard considers a case closed. You said it yourself: two of my homeless network targeted with tainted Spice. That's a pattern."

"Two isn't a pattern. That's a… a coincidence."

"What do you want, a third? Why are people only satisfied with the occurrence of three? Two's enough. And that supplier was only a foot soldier acting on instructions from someone else. You've got him in custody. Question him. Meanwhile, I've got my own investigation to carry out."

Sherlock made to leave—let Lestrade know that he was being dismissed.

"Sherlock, I can't keep covering for you! If you're going to roam the city with John's illegal handgun, I'm not go—"

"John took his gun," Sherlock retorted. "I'll be unarmed. Have a good day."

Sherlock made a beeline for his bedroom. He had a promise to keep to his girlfriend.

#

As she zipped up her boots, Violet wondered what mood Sherlock would be in this morning. It had been a week since his gun-wielding home invasion. Several variants of his persona had manifested themselves, with no leads on the Spice case and no cases from New Scotland Yard. And that was the problem with insulting the last contact Sherlock had with the Met—no major cases. And no challenges meant a Brooding Detective.

Violet emerged from the bedroom to find Sherlock seated at the dining table, tapping away at his laptop. When he saw her, he swiftly rose.

"Right," he said, descending on her. "I need you to go to several head shops in East London. I'll text you the addresses and the drugs I want you to purchase." Raking his eyes over her attire, he added, "And you might want to dress down for this. You're looking too much like,"—he flapped a disinterested hand at her— "Violet Hunter, the jobbing actress."

Violet gaped, momentarily stunned. Anyone would think they had already engaged in a conversation about this, but this was the first she'd heard of it.

"I'm… I'm dressed up because I'm going out to do my job."

"What job?"

"My…" She paused, knowing the rest of the details would fall on deaf ears. She'd already spoken to Sherlock about this the night before—about how nervous she was at having to record a fifteen minute sample.

"A bit like a screen test," she'd said, as they lay in bed curled around one another, "but for an audiobook. It's to see if the rights holder wants to go with me for this series of novels."

Sherlock had replied with his customary, "Mm." She should've realised he hadn't been listening.

"I can't go to a head shop and buy drugs," she said, feeling far too tired to explain the whole audiobook recording industry to Sherlock who may or may not pay attention anyway. "Sounds like a scandal waiting to happen."

"That's why I said dress down."

"I'm on my way out."

Violet headed for the door and grabbed her jacket from the hook on the back of it.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked.

Violet sighed and tugged on the jacket.

"The recording studio. I told you."

"And when will you have time to help me on this case and actually do something worthwhile?"

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."

Her cheeks burning, Violet left the flat. Sometimes it was best to play Sherlock's game: act as if everyone else in the world knew what your plans were and would support you without question.

#

The sample recording in a small studio in Hammersmith took less than an hour and Violet had arranged to meet Mandi and Priyal for coffee afterwards. Truth be told, she was avoiding Sherlock and his plans for her to buy synthetic drugs at a variety of head shops.

Violet stuck to her diet and chose a peppermint tea. Priyal had brought another friend along—a 'Wellness Consultant'. Violet was sure the woman bathed in rose water. Just wait til she told Sherlock about this consultant and tried to describe to him what 'wellness' meant. Perhaps he could branch out? She was fairly confident she could predict his response. Perhaps they'd have a laugh over it?

Fun and frivolity were hard to come by these days in 221B. Returning from the gym one morning, every blood vessel surging with adrenalin, she'd tried to cajole Sherlock into wrestling with her. Or boxing. Or something. A single-stick battle perhaps. But he'd simply looked at his watch and said he was due at the lab.

In the past, Violet was sure there was a better balance between them, for supporting each other in their areas of interest—Violet travelling with Sherlock on cases, helping him stalk people online; and Sherlock attending events and outings and reading her scripts. Didn't it work before, or was she imagining a life that never existed, and wouldn't exist in the future.

This time Violet returned to a vacant flat. She sent Sherlock a text, asking him if he'd be home for dinner. Not an unusual query. It would help her decide whether or not to heat up her own healthy meals she bought from the gym and order him chips, or heat one of these TV dinners she'd been buying him. She'd had varying degrees of success with Sherlock over those. After the first, he'd commented that it had the consistency (and taste!) of glue; the second he'd said was regurgitated mush. The third he'd started eating in silence, while Violet had been getting ready to go to a _Cleo de Thebes_ event with Mandi. She had returned that night to find the uneaten portion in the bin.

Now this brand looked good. At least the picture on the box held appeal. Tuna mornay. With corn. Violet didn't have the time to learn how to cook to Sherlock's impossibly high standards (how did chips from the shop on the Marylebone Road qualify!), and he wouldn't eat properly otherwise. So TV dinners it was.

His reply came in two hours later after Violet had already settled in front of the telly, her pre-made Energising Salad in her lap.

 _I'm up North on a case._ —SH

Violet's stomach lurched.

 _And don't worry_ , came a subsequent text, _I'm nowhere near Manchester_. —SH

Sherlock called Violet just before midnight (not that he realised the lateness of the hour) to explain that he had finally relented and had chosen the least bland case from his email inbox. All she got from him was a missing diamond, a wild goose-chase (or a wild goose?) around Selby in North Yorkshire, and a husband and wife on the brink of divorce. He would be back in the morning, if he could just locate the diamond, he told her.

Violet spent the next few days in blissful silence—no manic consulting detectives in close proximity. Although she felt pangs of disappointment that Sherlock hadn't invited her along. He was hot on the trail of the diamond (definitely a goose-chase, for it had been swallowed by a goose!). In the meantime, she studied the novel she was going to narrate— _Her Albatross_ by Jayle Anglesee. The producer loved her sample and she had been given the go-ahead. And the recording schedule fit perfectly in the week before she was due to leave for Australia.

She felt Sherlock's absence all too keenly at night, in those last few minutes before nodding off. Even on the nights they didn't make love, they'd at least fall asleep, wrapped in each others' arms.

Mandi had been in and out, making last minute arrangements for their temporary emigration to the ends of the Earth. She really was a very efficient P.A., Violet mused, after the redhead rattled off a few media outlets that requested quotes from the actress and meticulously studied Violet's _Rise of the Five_ call-sheet for their first week in Brisbane.

Violet was scrubbing the tiles around the ensuite sink when Sherlock returned.

"What happened?" he asked, the low timbre of his voice startling her.

"Oh, God! Sherlock! Don't do that!"

She pulled off rubber gloves and wiped at her forehead with the back of one hand. His furrowed brow told Violet he had been observing her for some time.

"How was the case?" she asked, moving towards him as she strived to catch her breath.

"Fine. Goose found. Diamond recovered."

"That's great!" Violet stretched up and planted a soft kiss on Sherlock's lips. "Welcome home," she whispered.

Sherlock continued to stare down at her, his eyes narrowed.

"Was it hard to catch," Violet asked, "… the goose?" A smile plucked at her lips at the image she was conjuring up in her mind.

The creases deepened in Sherlock's brow.

"It wasn't a live goose."

"Oh!" Violet exclaimed, with a light chuckle. "I was imagining…" She paused as more laughter bubbled from within. Sherlock just folded his arms across his chest and quietly observed her. "I'm… sorry," Violet said, attempting to stifle further outbursts. "I thought… you were running around a farm trying to…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes, so Violet reached out and patted his arm.

"Sorry," she said again, but her eyes still glistened with laughter.

"What happened?" Sherlock asked, his penetrating gaze cutting off any more giggling from Violet.

The nervous anticipation of delivering her news returned immediately.

After dumping the gloves into the sink, Violet brushed Sherlock's arm, signalling for him to follow her into the bedroom.

"Well…" she began, turning to him.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock interjected, his expression a mask of concern. "Because you never clean this intently unless something's upset you."

Oh, God. He's thinking the worst!

"No… no… it's just that…" Violet inhaled deeply, so she could get it all out at once. "Mandi's lease ended, for that flat in… well, you know, you visited her there. And since she's going to be in Australia for the next couple of months with me, it seemed silly to rent another place when she won't be there. So I said she could stay here. Upstairs. My old room. And Mrs Hudson said it was fine, and we cleaned up the bed. That's Mandi and I, not Mrs Hudson. Got rid of heaps of my clothes, and the rest fit in the wardrobe. You should see it! Except for a couple of dresses I hung in yours… because…"

Sherlock's eyes had widened over the course of Violet's rambling.

"But she'll stay upstairs," Violet quickly added, "except when she needs to use the kitchen, of course. And it'll be really handy, because we've got so much to discuss about the rest of the year, you know, with _Improbity_ in pre-production and the script for _Arthur Avenue_ being finalised. Did I tell you it had a title now? The Splendor Pictures film in New York…"

She trailed off. Couldn't quite read Sherlock. Had she said too much? Too little?

"It's fine," he said, blinking. He shrugged out of his jacket, turning from her.

Violet clasped her hands together.

"Any further developments on the Spice case?" she asked.

Sherlock draped his jacket over the chair in the corner.

"Not unless you want to buy drugs for me," he said, a tiny smile tugging at his lips.

"Not… really."

"How about Mandi?" he suggested, crossing the room for the door.

"Sorry?"

"To buy drugs."

Violet's head swam. Sherlock threw her a glance, his smile stretching wider as he grabbed his dressing gown from the back of the door.

"She's your P.A. after all," he added. "And since you're my P.A. that implies some kind of hierarchy. Therefore, Mandi works for me."

"What? No! I'm not getting Mandi to buy drugs for you. And what do you need them for anyway?"

"To test," Sherlock replied, slipping on his gown.

"Well, why can't you ask one of your friends? John or Mary… or… M-Molly Hooper?"

"Because I can't ask my friends to buy drugs to give to me."

"Why not?"

"…Because. There's a history."

He turned for the door. Violet folded her arms in front of her.

"Then why are you asking me?"

Making to exit, Sherlock waved a hand at the ensuite.

"Are you going to finish that?" he asked, before slipping into the passageway.

Violet exhaled deeply. Entering the bathroom, she felt the tightness in her chest ease a little.

Sherlock was okay for Mandi to stay. He'd said it was fine. What had she been so worried about?

She slipped the rubber gloves back on and caught her reflection in the mirror above the sink.

It would all be fine.

But her gaze said otherwise.

#

 _ **Author's Note:**_

 _The goose-chase case is loosely derived from ACD's_ The Adventures of the Blue Carbuncle.

 _Please review! I feel as though I'm writing into a void. I would love to read your thoughts on the story so far! x_


	8. That's What Couples Are Supposed To Do

**Chapter 8 - That's What Couples Are Supposed to Do**

 _ **September 2013**_

Violet found Sherlock where she'd left him earlier: sitting up in bed with his laptop perched on his lap. Her heart jolted at the thought of his discomfort in his own flat—that Mandi had irritated him to the degree that he now wouldn't sit in his armchair by the fire of an evening.

"Dinner's ready," she told him.

"Oh, okay," he said, fingertips tapping away at the keyboard. Gesturing to the bedside table with one hand he said, "Just put it there."

"No," Violet said, her neck muscles tensing. "We're eating at the table. I've cleared it."

The typing stopped. A tut issued from Sherlock's mouth.

"Why can't I eat in here?" he asked.

"Because we're being sociable today."

"Sociable," Sherlock scoffed. "I've put up with her for three weeks!"

"It's only been four days!"

"Feels like three weeks," he muttered.

Violet left Sherlock to freshen up. He was becoming more irritable as the days progressed, possibly because of the barriers he'd been putting in place between himself and their new lodger.

During the day, when Violet was at the recording studio, he'd taken to closing the sliding doors between the living room and the kitchen, and also locking the living room door to the landing. This still gave Mandi access to the kitchen, but prevented her from lounging around on their sofa.

"This is my place of work!" Sherlock had later complained to Violet the first day he'd found Mandi there.

And then he'd proceeded to accept every client that made contact with him. A constant stream of them in and out of the flat. Mediocre clients. Dull clients. Ones Sherlock would usually filter. Was he trying to prove a point? That he was a very busy, in-demand Consulting Detective? Not that Mandi was a permanent fixture at 221B. As well as taking on the role of Violet Hunter's personal assistant, she still worked as a part-time consultant for Cleo de Thebes, distributing products to various retailers throughout the city.

Mandi was already in the living room holding two bottles of wine when Violet entered carrying both her and Sherlock's plates, his fresh from the microwave.

"White or red?" Mandi asked.

Setting Sherlock's at the end and hers across from Mandi, Violet replied, "Neither. Diet, remember? Sherlock might like a glass. I think the red goes best with his beef."

"I think I like the white," Mandi remarked, placing one of the glasses in front of Sherlock's plate. She opened the white and proceeded to pour in a generous portion for him.

Not just Sherlock who isn't trying, Violet thought, taking her place at the table. The beginnings of a headache pressed against the back of her eyes.

"So we could go at 9pm," Mandi began, continuing a conversation they'd started earlier, as Sherlock entered the room.

Violet glanced at him tapping away at his phone as he crossed the floor.

"Lincoln said only the roadies will be there," Mandi went on, oblivious. "But we can get a good table. The lads will be there at ten, and get this…" Mandi leant in closer, as if to impart confidential information. "When they're taking a break between sets, they'll sit with us!"

"Well…" began Violet. Did she have to tell Mandi yet again that she didn't want to go out tonight? That she wanted a night in with her boyfriend?

Sherlock had sat down, his eyes still on his screen. He lifted his fork, his expression unreadable.

"Careful, it's hot," Violet told him.

He placed the fork back down and reached for the wine, only then taking his focus off his phone.

"Isn't that great?" Mandi gushed, obviously still referring to tonight's Beige Apple secret pub gig.

"Mm," Sherlock said, eyeing the wine. "White."

He took a sip, and Violet knew that one word held a quiet criticism about the choice of wine. She turned back to Mandi and hoped her BFF hadn't understood Sherlock's remark.

"Isn't there another band on before Beige Apple?" she asked, striving to keep the conversation moving along. "Like, a support act? Because that could mean you won't get a table."

"Doubt it," Mandi replied. "I don't think they'd be any good, to be honest. It's The Harwich, after all. Who goes there? That's the point of the secret gig." Grabbing her phone from beside her plate, she added, "I'll just check with Lincoln."

Violet picked at her salad. From the corner of her eye, she saw Sherlock pop a piece of beef into his mouth as he read something on his screen. As he slowly chewed, his phone chimed with a new message. Naturally, it drew Violet's attention. A smile grew from one corner of Sherlock's mouth as he read, causing a sharp pang in Violet's chest.

Sherlock slowly rose from his seat as he tapped away again.

"Lincoln says it's only a magician," Mandi said, laughing lightly. "Who'd be there for that?"

But Violet was only half listening. Sherlock had moved towards the doors to the kitchen with his phone to his ear.

"You know I never guess," he drawled, without preamble, to whomever he had just called. "What is it that's just come in?"

Violet looked down at her steamed chicken and spinach. It suddenly lost its appeal.

"I like magic," she said in a flat response to Mandi. But her friend had begun tapping away at her own phone, probably a flirtatious reply to Lincoln.

Violet redirected her gaze to Sherlock.

"Molly Hooper, you're a genius!"

Violet's insides twisted and she felt her face flush. She put down her fork and slowly rose from her seat.

"That all right?" Mandi asked, nodding at Violet's plate.

"It's fine," Violet swiftly replied. "I just need water."

She made a swift exit for the kitchen, brushing past Sherlock on the way. He was talking about decomposition and preservation and rates of decay—none of which Violet understood.

At the sink, she filled a glass tumbler with water, then gulped down half of it. It did nothing to alleviate whatever it was that was shredding her insides.

Sherlock had disappeared out of view while Violet refilled her glass. He returned a moment later holding his plate of beef.

"No, no, nothing on," he said, cradling the phone between ear and shoulder.

Violet looked on, her cheeks beginning to burn, as Sherlock started scraping the contents of his meal into the kitchen bin. She opened her mouth to protest, but Sherlock just continued talking into his phone, not making eye contact with her.

"As soon as I can get a cab," he said.

Violet moved away from the sink as he made a beeline for it. The plate and cutlery clattered as Sherlock dropped them into it. He turned on the tap.

"Leave them," Violet said, waving at the sink. It was obvious he needed to be somewhere. Bart's most likely.

Every muscle in her body now tensed.

"I'm off then," Sherlock said, pocketing the phone on his way through the kitchen.

Violet baulked at following him. She resisted the urge to demand he explain where he was going and what for. She'd already guessed. But what about the dinner they'd heated up for him! Conflicting thoughts battered her head. She should pull him up about that! But she was reluctant to cause a scene in front of Mandi, especially when her friend already held negative thoughts about Sherlock.

"I'm going to text Chenoa and Priyal, yeah?" Mandi called out as Violet made for the kitchen door to the landing.

Perhaps if she intercepted him from this side, Mandi wouldn't see.

"And Priyal can bring Antonia," Mandi went on.

Violet opened the door just as Sherlock thundered past, now sporting his Belstaff.

"Sher—"

"Don't wait up!"

He rounded the corner and was gone.

Quietly fuming, Violet softly closed the kitchen door. She'd need a few seconds to recompose herself. Her heart thumped wildly. Mandi made a few more remarks about Priyal and Antonia, but Violet couldn't process anything else right now.

What the fuck was going on with Sherlock?

"Vi?"

Mandi had called her. Twice now.

"Sorry," Violet said, striding back into the living room. She vaguely recalled what Mandi had been asking, and replied, "Yes, Priyal's dating Antonia now, and no, I don't know what happened to Lila."

"Did he just leave?" Mandi said, gesturing towards the door.

"Uh… yes," Violet replied, striving to project a casual air. "Something came up."

Mandi wrinkled her nose.

"Yeah, some tart called Molly Cooper, that's what came up."

Violet felt her flush returning. Obviously Mandi had heard portions of Sherlock's phone call as well. But she settled back into her seat at the table anyway.

"It… it's not like that," she replied, picking up her fork. "She's a pathologist at Bart's. And when there's…" Violet drew in a steady breath, and decided on a different tack. "You know when Sherlock's called to a crime scene? He can see how a death occurred by examining the body and surrounding area. Doesn't take him long." Mandi grimaced, but Violet soldiered on. "Well, he knows a lot about causes of death because he's been studying them for years. So when something unusual comes into Bart's morgue, Molly gives him a call and—"

"Oh my God! You mean like a dead body?"

"And…" Violet stammered, slightly thrown by Mandi's look of horror. "And he gathers more information. Relevant data. To store for later." Violet forced a smile to her face to conclude her explanation. She then stabbed at a piece of chicken and popped it into her mouth.

"You're normalising his behaviour again!" Mandi said.

Violet chewed thoughtfully and shook her head.

"Yes, you are!" Mandi went on. "Ever since I moved in here… no. Ever since I met him, you've been trying to explain away everything he does." Violet swallowed her mouthful, steeling herself for the argument. "Every rude comment," Mandi continued, "and insult and every time he storms off. He doesn't even say goodbye!" She gestured to the stairwell.

"Not all—"

"Oh, he's all nice on the phone to Molly bloody Cooper and doesn't even look at you or say goodbye!"

"Firstly, it's Molly Hooper. And she's nice. I've met her."

"Doesn't mean she isn't out to steal your boyfriend."

Mandi stood and picked up her plate.

"Mandi," Violet said in exasperation.

"Are you done?" Mandi said, indicating Violet's plate.

"Have you quite finished criticising my boyfriend?" Violet retorted, pushing her plate towards Mandi.

"Whatever," Mandi said, taking the dishes into the kitchen. "So, you've changed your mind about coming out with us then, yeah?"

"No, I haven't," Violet said. "Late nights and drinking aren't good if you're going on a long-haul flight. And I've got to hit the ground running after we arrive. I know you'll get to sleep all day when we get there. And anyway, I'm still packing."

Of course she could explain Sherlock's behaviour to Mandi, Violet thought as she mounted the stairs. And she always had. But perhaps that was Mandi's point. Why did she have to?

Her conflicting thoughts as ever, circled and twisted and mutated. Of course he was different. Not the "standard" boyfriend. That was a part of his charm and why she had fallen for him in the first place.

Charm?

Then why did she feel so wretched?

Violet began packing clothes and toiletries for their trip as Mandi showered then tried on several outfits for the night ahead, asking to borrow this and that from amongst Violet's possessions and gushing about Lincoln and his role in the band. Mandi had flirted with him backstage on _The Late Show._ The young musician had only made it into Beige Apple after winning a reality TV show that was seeking a replacement after their original drummer took his own life.

Violet couldn't decide which toiletries to take. She was rapidly running out of space in both suitcases.

"Right," Mandi said, pushing the last pin into her hair. "I've still got an hour before I have to leave. We're going to sort out this boyfriend thing once and for all."

"What?"

Mandi sat on the bed and began tapping away at Violet's iPad. Violet pulled out the pair of tights she had rolled up and substituted them for another pair.

"You'll see," Mandi said. "It won't be just my opinion. Is there a printer…" Her eyes scanned the iPad screen. "Ah, there's one."

"It's downstairs on the shelf. Next to the sliding door to the kitchen. What are you printing?"

"Back in a sec."

Violet surveyed all she had packed so far as Mandi trotted off downstairs. She was zipping up the smaller suitcase when her friend returned, puffing lightly from her swift ascent.

"Okay, question one," Mandi began.

Violet protested when Mandi explained she'd found a questionnaire online called _How Do I Know If I'm In a Toxic Relationship?_

"A questionnaire? What are we… sixteen years old?"

She tried to ignore Mandi reading out the questions, eventually deciding it was easier if she just left, whereas Mandi retorted that she could probably answer the questions on Violet's behalf anyway.

Violet reached the threshold and spun around.

"You know what, Mandi. Sherlock isn't a typical boyfriend, and that doesn't make our relationship bad or wrong. It's unique. I'm finding it really insulting that you've got a low opinion of the man I love, a man you know nothing about."

"I know enough! And I'm finding it really insulting that you don't care to hear the opinion of a friend who loves you and cares about you. You're too close and you can't see him for what he is."

Violet drew in a deep breath.

"You're a wonderful friend and a fantastic personal assistant," she told Mandi. "But if you keep this up, our relationship is really going to be in trouble. That's yours and mine, not mine and Sherlock's."

With those parting words, Violet escaped onto the landing.

As she descended, Mandi called out, "Let the questionnaire decide! I'll let you know the results!"

Violet locked herself away in the ensuite.

#

Lavender oil, Sherlock deduced as he passed the bathroom.

Carefully pushing open the door to the bedroom, he noted that its closed position strongly signified Violet's presence. He thought she'd be home much later.

Allowing the light from the kitchen to spill into the room, he paused, waiting for his eyes to adjust. His girlfriend was indeed curled up underneath the covers, facing away from the door.

But an unidentifiable eeriness in the room and a prior yet unregistered observation of the ensuite bathroom gave Sherlock cause for alarm. Beating a discreet retreat into the passageway, he gently pulled the door shut. He turned and headed into the bathroom. Bare floor, folded towels. No carelessly discarded clothing items that Violet would have worn to the pub, no pins and other hair accessories cluttering the sink, no disposable makeup wipes scrunched up on the side. Violet hadn't left the flat all evening.

And the lavender oil. Of course!

A good soak in the tub was usually an indicator Violet was winding down for the evening (sometimes hinting that Sherlock should join her!), not preparing for a night out.

A number of theories relating to a change in plans entered Sherlock's Mind Palace, most of them unpleasant. He silently undressed and freshened up before donning pyjamas. Re-entering the bedroom, he wondered whether or not he should wake Violet and interrogate her now, or let her sleep, resulting in him having to wait til morning to find out.

Never one for not knowing things, he curled himself around his girlfriend, propping himself up on one elbow to press a kiss to her temple.

Violet stirred and murmured, "No, Sherlock."

A cold hand gripped his heart.

"What happened?" he immediately asked.

"… Tired," she said.

"Why didn't you go to the pub?"

Violet sniffed, an almost imperceptible disturbance to the silence. His skin prickled.

"Violet?" he said, resting a light hand on her shoulder.

"Nothing… happened." Her words were halting, her voice raw.

Fearing the worst, Sherlock rolled away from her and flicked on the bedside light.

Violet tutted loudly, pulled one of the pillows out from underneath her and placed it on top of her head. Sherlock swiftly rounded the bed.

"What happened?" he asked, settling on the edge by Violet's side. "Why didn't you go out?" When he received no response from her, he continued. "Why won't you talk to me? Is it my fault? Is it something I've done? … Is it something I haven't done?"

Violet cast the pillow aside and blinked up at him with tear-stained, reddened eyes. Obviously her appearance wasn't only as a result of the last minute of awake time. There was a much larger concern. She'd been crying earlier.

"I didn't go out," she said. "I was never going out. You didn't care to check. You just… left."

It was his fault, he thought, slowly catching on. He was to blame. But…

This wasn't anything new or alarming. He'd dashed out of the house many times before—in pursuit of a case, to alleviate boredom, in desperate need for a smoke. All without necessarily checking with Violet first. Sometimes she'd take a dig at him when he returned, other times he'd receive irate texts he'd dutifully ignore. And on rarer occasions, he'd solve a case in a spectacular fashion and she'd been quite keen to hear all about his cleverness. And how he'd reaped the rewards during those times!

Why had this been such a big deal tonight?

"I… I'm sorry," he said, ultimately deciding that this was a better opener than immediately launching into an attack. "I was sure you were going to the pub with Mandi… to see that… that Beige… Melon thing. Clearly, I misunderstood the conversation."

Violet's eyes were still misty and she attempted to wipe away her tears before she spoke.

"Mandi asked me along," she said, sniffing again. "But I told her I wanted to spend the night at home… with you." Her voice crackled at the end, and her eyes welled with tears once more. Sherlock's heart sank. "And you didn't eat your dinner."

"Ah… about that…"

"I'm leaving for Australia the day after tomorrow," she went on, her voice still ragged. Turning her head, she glanced at the clock, her expression falling even further. "It's already tomorrow," she added. The clock indicated a little after midnight. Barely 'tomorrow', Sherlock thought. "So we've only got one day left. And you act like you don't care."

"On the contrary," he said. "I do care." His throat felt tight and his voice a bit unnatural. "I'm trying not to imagine my life without you. It's too hard to comprehend." Reaching for her hand, he noted the slight arch of her brow. A touch of sympathy there, so he soldiered on. "When you were away doing your publicity thing, I felt your absence in… in so many ways."

He made that statement as sincerely as he could. It was hard to put into words how he'd felt during her time away, but it had reached the stage where he longed to be greeted first thing in the morning with knickers and bras hanging merrily around the bathtub; to mutter under his breath in the dark, "Fucking hell, Violet," as he tripped over a misplaced highheel in the middle of his bedroom. There were the lost opportunities to share in the misery of others—the dull clients—exchanging a look of knowing on the odd occasion Violet sat in on client meetings; to giggle like drunks on the stairs after a successful case, as they tried to peel away one another's clothing without the landlady hearing; to have her soft touch on his shoulder as she passed his armchair of an evening, asking if he'd like a cup of tea; to wake her with spectacular sex and hear her sigh his name; to sit across from her in front of the fireplace, watching the excitement light up her eyes as she regaled him with trivial anecdotes about life on set; to have her snuggle into his arms, the corner of whatever novel she was reading digging into his ribs.

To tell her he loved her and see her eyes moisten.

To hear those words spoken to him in return and feel his chest swelling in response.

His longing had manifested itself physically, and although he was fully versed in the biology behind it, he still marvelled at the effect their relationship had on him, the human calculating machine, as John Watson had once referred to him.

And he knew that her longer stint in Australia would almost unravel him.

Care?

Of course he fucking did.

"Perhaps I'm in denial," he said in conclusion. "You know I'm not one for describing my feelings at the moment I'm having them." His jaw jutted forward and he averted his gaze for a moment. "Still learning to do that," he added, blinking, having just reminded himself of an earlier slight panic attack at the idea that Violet could be distracted by her career and never return from Australia. And he hadn't found a case with which to entice her to stay yet!

Violet sniffed again, her gaze still on him as if she was quietly studying him. Her eyes had widened. Definitely sympathetic. She shifted, pulling herself up a little.

"I don't…" she began, then appeared to reconsider. "I'm worried we're going to be one of those couples who can't make this work," she said. "Because of our jobs."

"We'll make it work," Sherlock said, reaching out to cup her face, "because that's what we both want. We'll have all those moments in between. And today, or tomorrow, your last day before you go, we'll lock all the doors and switch off our phones. Block everyone out. We'll make all those days count, because we want them to."

Violet responded by covering Sherlock's hand with hers. Her expression softened.

"Do you still love me?" she asked, her voice lowering to a whisper.

"You have to ask?"

Her smile was wobbly, but it was still there all the same.

"I've been a bit emotional lately," she said, bringing their hands down together. "Everything seems to be happening so fast. I can't believe I have all this work on. But you seem happy just to carry on with your cases as if I wasn't around. I was worried you wouldn't even miss me."

"Miss you? Oh, I suppose I might," he drawled. Violet's eyes brightened into a smile. Rearranging his features into a semi-serious expression, Sherlock murmured, "I love you. Just in case there's any doubt in your mind."

"I love you, too," Violet whispered. "Please be here when I get back."

Sherlock straightened up and dropped his gaze to Violet's neck. Reaching out, he clasped the Mickey Mouse pendant.

"I once told you this meant I would always come back to you," he said, "after an argument or whenever I'm off on a case or hiding out in a bolthole. But it can also remind you that I'll be here for you, when you return."

Violet sniffed again, diverting her gaze to the pendant.

"I don't know why you put up with me," she said.

"Oh… because you're okay in bed and you sometimes make a decent cup of tea." He regarded her warmly, then added a little less facetiously, "I'm sorry I abandoned you this evening."

She thanked him with a smile and then she sighed. "And I'm sorry I brought Mandi between us."

"Ah. Yes. Your Ms Doniellson."

"Only one more day."

"Mm."

Sherlock rose from the bed to turn off the bedside lamp on his side.

"I s'pose I should let you get back to sleep," he said, while slipping underneath the covers.

"Yes… thank you," came Violet's voice through the darkness.

Sherlock's shoulders sagged in defeat.

"You can nudge me awake sometime before dawn," she added in a whisper.

They rearranged themselves so they slotted in perfectly, Violet resting her head on Sherlock's chest. He listened to her breathing, feeling her body grow heavy and knowing the precise moment she had fallen asleep.

An odd thought flitted through Sherlock's mind.

He had promised to always return to Violet, but it was Violet who was doing the leaving this time. And he had forgotten to ask for her promise to return to him.

#


	9. You Need Me Or You're Nothing

**Chapter 9 - You Need Me, Or You're Nothing**

"No… bit lower… lower… lower… no, up a bit."

"Sherlock! I don't have time for this!"

Violet left him on the dresser. It wasn't the best view, but his girlfriend filled the frame now and then as she bustled about getting ready.

"No, slow down!" he ordered, when Violet swiftly removed her night shirt.

Violet emitted a light laugh then moved out of view. Sherlock heard the sound of an aerosol spray.

"I know you're all settled in for the evening," she said, coming back into frame and grabbing the sports bra from her bed, "but I've got a whole day ahead of me. Transport will be here shortly."

Sherlock accompanied his scoff with a complimentary eyeroll. He had been contemplating taking himself and his laptop to the bedroom if he could only get Violet to stop dressing herself. When she had taken off her night shirt, he—

Wait a minute!

"Violet," he said, "Where's that shirt you just took off?"

Violet, having just pulled on a pair of trackpants to go with her sports bra, giggled and reached behind her. She hugged the shirt. Sherlock thought it had looked familiar.

"I stole it from the bathroom door," she said, holding the shirt to her nose and inhaling deeply. Her eyes had closed to slits. "It still smells like you."

Sherlock slowly shook his head. His girlfriend was deranged.

But now he was without his favourite pyjama shirt. He'd wondered where it had got to.

"I've got to go," Violet said, discarding the shirt with abandonment in stark contrast to her earlier affection for it. Was that how she saw him? On to bigger and better things. Discard Sherlock and his silly cases.

Sherlock scowled as Violet drew on a sweat shirt.

"I've got fight choreography," she said, stooping down to grab her shoes. "It's so amazing!" She glanced up at the screen, her eyes bright with enthusiasm. "Just wait til I get back," she said. "You're not going to know what hit you." She chuckled lightly and paused from doing up her laces. "Well, you will know, actually. It'll be me." Amused by her own quip, she laughed some more.

Sherlock had to admit Violet's skills in unarmed combat had greatly improved since she began training for the movie. During their last day together, she'd successfully out-manoeuvred him during their bedroom wrestling session. They'd tossed the bed covers onto the floor to cushion their falls. As Sherlock lay stunned looking up at the ceiling, slightly winded, Violet had dropped onto him in preparation for crushing his windpipe with the full weight of her body.

"You're dead," she said, a flash of fire lighting her eyes.

It was particularly thrilling and it made for energetic and creative sex afterwards.

In reflection, that day was quite the success in crawling back from whatever dark hole Violet had placed him due to his desertion the previous evening. Surely she understood his commitment to her now? Short of doing something silly like proposing marriage to her, that is. He'd often pondered that notion, especially since the Watson's wedding and all the nonsense that went with it. Was that the end game for Violet? The final nail in the coffin of commitment?

He thought about it a lot during the night of John's stag do, especially. Must've been the alcohol. Did Violet long for a proposal? Because a wedding as a ritual was absurd. Why did they need a public spectacle to declare their commitment to one another? Not to mention the paperwork! At the end of the night, he suspected he may have queried if she wanted him to ask her to marry him. Perhaps he'd slurred the words too much and she hadn't understood him, or he hadn't even said anything out loud, because she didn't ask him about it the next day. Thank Christ for that. She may have thought he was actually proposing!

"I have to go," Violet said, standing and reaching for her phone. "Bye, Sherlock! Love you!"

"Mm."

"Sherlock."

"What? Oh. I love you, too."

Violet gave him a look he couldn't immediately decipher and ended the Skype call. Sherlock found himself staring into the distance.

Weddings, he scoffed.

Now… where's Mrs Hudson with my dinner?

#

Sherlock slowly washed his now very clean dinner plate, deep in thought.

Of course he could hightail it to Manchester. Poke around a bit. His theory that there had been a criminal mastermind controlling the likes of Sebastian Moran, and now possibly Jake Venucci due to the former's incarceration, still floated around his mind. Now that Violet was away, he could do such things.

Or… he thought, glancing behind him at the clutter of chemistry equipment on the kitchen table, he could commence those experiments he'd been wanting to undertake but couldn't in Violet's presence. Ah! he thought gleefully, he could resurrect the thumb test! It had been an age.

London was his playground once more!

If he had so much to look forward to, then why did it feel as though his heart had dropped to the vicinity of his stomach? He should be living it up!

Sherlock rinsed the plate and placed it on the drainer. He let the water out of the sink and wiped his hands on a tea towel. When the front door clicked shut, Sherlock's heart jolted. A visitor! John and Mary? Or perhaps Lestrade… a new case! But the Scotland Yard D.I. didn't have a key to 221 Baker Street, and Mrs Hudson hadn't let anyone in. And besides, he was no longer on good terms with Lestrade, so…

A tap on the first step followed by footsteps told Sherlock all he needed to know. His shoulders slumped and he exhaled wearily.

Tea, he thought. He'd put the kettle on. At least make this visit seem half-civilised. Phonecalls and texts, Sherlock could ignore. But Mycroft Holmes hadn't taken to dropping in unannounced these days. Sherlock felt that his brother found Violet Hunter a tad alarming. He never quite knew how to take her, and that suited Sherlock just fine. But now that Violet temporarily resided in Australia, Sherlock's first line of defence against the British Government had disappeared with her.

Sherlock withdrew two tea cups from the overhead cupboard, and when he heard the footfalls cross the threshold, he asked, "Tea?"

His brother preceded his answer with a sigh.

"At this hour? I'd be nursing a brandy by now."

"So why aren't you at home, nursing your brandy?" Sherlock asked, turning around to face him.

"Because I'm visiting you," Mycroft said, a brief smile stretching wide.

Sherlock abandoned his tea making efforts and strolled into the living room, his hands thrust in his pockets.

"With files," he said, nodding towards the bundle Mycroft had tucked under one arm.

"Ms Hunter settled comfortably on the Gold Coast?" the older Holmes asked. He plucked out his fob watch from his waistcoat pocket and glanced at it. "Their first cast readthrough of the script should be occurring about now." The words rolling off his tongue must've felt as odd forming them as it did to hear them. "That's a bit of an event, isn't it?"

"Is it? Why are you here? You know my default answer to any case you're thinking of giving me is 'no'."

"I believe you're well and truly in my debt," Mycroft replied. He strode over to the living room table. Placing the files down, Mycroft opened the first.

He said, "The list of names you keep requesting me to investigate is increasing in direct proportion to the number of favours you now owe me."

"On the contrary," Sherlock replied. "You've always said dubious people could get to me through Violet. And if they get to me, then they can get to you."

"I've never put it as clumsily as that."

"Violet is in constant contact with new people in the entertainment industry. So it's in your best interests, Brother Dear, and therefore to Queen and Country, to get them checked out."

"Justin Behmes and Virginia Schalder," Mycroft read, moving on. "The current owners of Splendor Pictures. Both successful actors in the eighties. Schalder is a director, while Behmes produces. Principal sponsors of the Global Nature Fund, and various other charities—"

"I know all this. They want Violet for a new film—forgotten the title. They'll be shooting in New York next year."

" _Arthur Avenue_ is the working title," Mycroft said, tapping the file.

"I wanted you to dig deeper."

"There isn't anything else as far as the intelligence community is concerned. And that's me checking with the CIA and the FBI." With a tired sigh, Mycroft turned over a few pages. "Max Burnott," he said.

"Yes, yes, the director of Violet's current film, _The Rise of the Five_. Skip the biography."

"That's my point," Mycroft said. "All these people check out. From the three executive producers down to the production assistant in charge of filling out log books at base camp. And don't get me started on the cleaning staff. You do realise how many people work on a film project as large as this? We've barely touched the surface."

"I'll give you names as I hear them. People who interact with Violet. It's as simple as that."

Mycroft rolled his eyes.

"Fine," he said, shutting the file. "I'll leave this one with you." Opening the second file, Mycroft stepped away, giving Sherlock room to scan the first page.

Sherlock heaved out a sigh.

"Irene Adler," he said, unimpressed.

"Yes, Ms Adler. I did try to give you her case a while ago—"

"Why's it still relevant? I imagine one of your lot has been caught in a compromising position? Photos? Videos?"

"Not quite," Mycroft said, standing taller and folding his arms behind his back. "Ms Adler's clientele come from all walks of life. Yes, MPs as well as organised crime figures. As a result, she's accumulated quite a wealth of information, some of which may be of interest to the British Government."

It was Sherlock's turn to roll his eyes.

"She has information relating to a vast network of criminals," Mycroft continued, "operating within the United Kingdom and on the continent. So, naturally, if anyone within this network gets wind that Ms Adler possesses such information, then her life would be in grave danger and it's possible we'll never gain access to the data. She wants to negotiate terms which will ensure her safety."

"Why isn't it the other way around? Why isn't she selling government secrets to criminal organisations? Surely they're better funded?"

"I'm sure she did, initially," Mycroft replied with a brief smile. "But now it's a question of her safety. She said she wanted the backing of an organisation that had its own navy. But after her initial contact, she took herself off the grid. We need to find her."

"So why not set MI5 or even Six on her trail?"

Mycroft briefly glanced at his shoes, repositioning himself.

"She approached me… or rather, my right hand."

"Anthea."

"Correct," Mycroft said, with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "If Irene Adler doesn't trust the Security Services, then neither can I. And that means putting the one person I can trust on this case. Do you understand my predicament?"

"You need me," Sherlock said, narrowing his eyes.

"Unfortunately, yes."

Not a cause for celebration. It wasn't a question of needing Sherlock's skills in particular, but one of trust.

How dull.

"Where was her last known sighting?"

"Paris. She prefers to frequent an area known as the Marais district."

"I know it."

"Good," Mycroft said, his expression almost one of relief. "How soon can you depart? Now that Ms Hunter is ten thousand miles away, you shouldn't have any… interference."

Now this was rather telling, Sherlock thought.

"You came after she left the country," he said, narrowing his eyes. "You still don't trust her."

Mycroft lifted his chin.

"Ms Hunter is a celebrity," he replied. "She talks to the press. Anybody whose job it is to exist as a public spectacle cannot be trusted with national secrets."

"Then why don't you tell that to the Prime Minister?"

"The PM isn't trusted with national secrets... well…" Mycroft's lips eased into a lizard's smile. "Not the ones that matter."

In spite of himself, Sherlock chuckled.

"Give me a few days," he told his brother. "I have a couple of things to tend to first."

A bold-faced lie. But extra days in London may still yield a far more interesting case than Mycroft's missing person abroad.

Although…. He pondered.

Mycroft bid Sherlock a good evening, but the younger Holmes was already too absorbed in his own thoughts to reply.

Surely Irene Adler's information about criminal networks in the U.K. included Venucci's organised crime outfit. Would the data reveal the name of a criminal mastermind, the puppeteer who Sherlock strongly suspected initially pulled Sebastian Moran's strings?

Sherlock steepled his hands, bringing them to his lips as he began to pace. This case may prove bigger and far more dangerous than he first imagined.

How exciting.

#

"I'll make you a cup of tea," Tim said, sweeping past Violet for the end of the table where a large urn and several tea cups teetered upon saucers. The large platter of Danish pastries spread before them looked frightfully unappealing and Violet had confided in him that she had no appetite.

That Timothy Killaney had taken it upon himself to act as her chaperone warmed Violet. Her brain felt fuzzy as if she was constantly having out of body experiences. She'd met far too many people in quick succession this morning: executive producers—at least three, she counted—as well as the line producer she had spoken to on the phone several times, a finance manager, the Director of Photography, the Production Designer, the first Assistant Director, the 2nd AD… and so on. The room was crowded with bodies, more than would fit around the conference-style table, despite its size. There were extra chairs arranged along three of the walls of the room, two rows deep. Violet was at a loss as to who all these extra people were. This wasn't just a first readthrough. It was to be a performance of sorts.

Max Burnott, the Director, was lovelier in person than he had been during their various transatlantic Skype and phone calls. The introduction to the group of raucous young men in one corner was where Violet truly found her inner and outer personalities separating. Her inner Violet stood wide-eyed and slack-jawed beside her, watching as Violet the Actress held her own among the movie's five male stars.

Violet recalled slumping down in her seat in the Cineworld in nearby Didsbury with Mandi, when they both lived in Manchester. Tired and hungover, a sulty August three years ago, they'd escaped to the cinema during their rental flat inspection. The Egyptian deities had filled the screen, larger than life, fighting against the evil serpent of the underworld, played by her now good friend and fellow Brit, Tim Killaney—the man currently fetching her tea and secretly dating her ex-flatmate and former co-star Spencer Munro.

"No beer!" Joseph Irkhardt exclaimed in mock outrage, his broad Australian accent still surprising her. His character, the bull deity, Apis, spoke with a British accent. His large mitt enclosed a custard danish as their other co-stars, Bradley Tessi and Heath Camblin roared with laughter. Violet had a feeling Joe was overplaying his Aussie-ness a bit.

"If we could all get started," a female voice called from one end of the room. It was Lynda Chan-Beatty, the line producer.

There was a last minute dash for the buffet table, which was spread the full length of one wall. Violet moved away, cup of tea in one hand, water bottle clutched in the other, and followed Tim across the room. Her heart skipped a little at the sight of her own name on a place card on the far-side of the table. She was sat next to Tim, thank goodness. On her other side, Ethan Helgesen was deep in conversation over his shoulder with an enthusiastic woman Violet didn't know. Mandi would be beside herself to learn Violet was seated next to the _Jefferson Parish_ star. Her best friend had even attempted to show Violet footage of Helgesen completely naked in a sex scene in the hugely popular vampire drama.

"Not now, Mandi!" Violet had told her friend, looking away. "Perhaps after we've finished shooting." It would be far too distracting to act opposite a man you'd seen in glorious nude detail only days before.

A couple of assistants began placing scripts in front of everyone who was seated. Violet noticed that many scripts, including her own, were littered with sticky labels.

Tim leant in to her and said, "They're marking your parts. So you know when you can duck out to the loo or make another cuppa without missing your next scene."

Violet gave him a grateful smile. Why didn't people tell her these things?

Alissen King, the 1st Assistant Director, welcomed everyone and introduced the main production executives and director who all sat across from the principal actors. She then asked everyone to introduce themselves around the table. Several support actors who had a varying amount of speaking parts and the narrator introduced themselves first.

Violet drew in a steadying breath when Tim said, "Tim Killaney, reading the part of Apophis."

"Violet Hunter, reading Satis," she said, ending with a brief smile to nobody in particular at the opposite side of the table.

Ethan, Joe, Brad and Heath introduced themselves along with the characters they were reading, the four Egyptian gods Khonsu, Apis, Kephri and Sobek, respectively. Violet's Satis would make up the fifth member of the Anuket's Children superhero team in this sequel. It was all a bit overwhelming, joining something that had already entered into pop culture.

As several other support actors introduced themselves, Violet let her eyes wander around the room. She was stunned to see Hersch Gleitzman having a murmured conversation with a woman whose expression looked absolutely furious. What did he have to do with this film, or Etienne-Lumiere, the studio producing _The Rise of the Five_? He ran his own independent production company, Gleitzman and Co. but he was very hands-on, having a lot of creative input into the films his company produced. But this sequel was definitely not one of his projects.

Still pondering this, Violet let her eyes drift to the rest of the group either seated on the spare chairs, or standing nearby. She caught the eye of a dark-haired man, leaning against the wall, hands thrust casually into his pockets. He was young—thirtyish, perhaps—with a faint smile on his lips. A knowing smile? But at that moment, he bowed his head, rubbing the back of his neck to avert his gaze.

Violet refocussed on the group at the table.

"Mary Smith, subbing for Fiona Taylor. I'm reading the second passenger on the train."

Violet exhaled deeply, opening her script along with everyone else when Alissen bid them to.

It was a good fifteen minutes or so before Violet uttered her first line, with the opening scenes dedicated to the original four superheroes mid-battle. The banter and one-liners flew, allowing Violet to laugh throatily along with everyone else, in an attempt to keep her vocal chords warm. As soon as she had a few lines to speak, she finally relaxed into it. She was mesmerised as the story unfolded before her, having read only her own scenes with brief summaries of the rest. Her final scene of significance was alongside Tim. The ferocity and hate directed at her character gave her the chills.

Prolonged applause and cheers sounded at the narrator's final words, "The End". Tim pulled Violet into an embrace, kissing the top of her head.

"Well done," he murmured.

What an ordeal, she thought.

There were congratulations all round along with several group photos. People began to file out. Violet glanced at the clock on the wall. She had time for a lunch break, then she was required back in G Block for more training in fight choreography.

"You slotted in perfectly."

Violet looked up in surprise. The man she had noticed earlier stood with Lynda, the producer. His accent threw her. She was expecting an American accent.

"Oh, Violet," Lynda said, suddenly scrambling to speak when she noticed Violet's expression. "Have you met our Chief Operating Officer, Mr Ja—"

"No, no, we don't have to be so formal," he said, holding out his hand and grinning. As Violet returned his handshake, he added, "Jim. Jim Moriarty."

#


	10. Aren't Ordinary People Adorable

**Chapter 10 - Aren't Ordinary People Adorable**

"Sherlock, your cab's here!" Mrs Hudson called out from the stairwell.

"Coming."

Deciding not to smuggle it abroad, which would've been against the direct orders of his brother, Sherlock tucked his phone into the wooden drawers on the table. No point checking again. Violet wouldn't reply to his text for a few hours yet. According to Australian Eastern Standard Time, she'd still be asleep.

Sherlock double-checked he had the Security Services-issued phone in his breast pocket. However long he'd be away—a day or two, he surmised—he'd have no contact with his girlfriend, or anyone else in his life, for that matter. Except for his brother.

"We must assume your movements can be tracked," Mycroft Holmes had told him in a more specific briefing the day before. "Do not take your own phone abroad, and don't under any circumstances, tell your friends for whom you are searching."

And that meant his girlfriend.

A rather vague text to Violet—"on a case" in a "very patchy service area". He'd call her once he returned, he said.

Sherlock descended to the entranceway, picking up his overnight bag from the landing on the way. His taxi sat across from the front door. As he approached it, a second cab squealed to a halt behind his. He threw a cursory glance at the passenger when she alighted. Black felt hat. Sunglasses. Incognito.

But I know her.

"Mister Holmes. Sherlock," she said, trotting up to him, holding her handbag in a tight grasp.

Bit familiar and rather desperate.

She was already breathless, even though she had only hastened a few yards along the footpath.

Why did he know her?

"You're leaving?" she added, a trace of mild panic in her tone.

"For a bit."

He couldn't really get away with answering, 'No'. A cursory glance at his hand luggage gave her enough data.

"Are you… going to Australia?" she asked.

Hmm. Someone who knew he was dating Violet Hunter, and that she was shooting a film in Australia. Well, that could be half of London.

"No… but I'm in a bit of a hurry," he said amiably, opening the cab door to reinforce his words, "so if you'd like to come back at the end of the week, I'll—"

"I'll ride with you," she said, immediately slipping into the back seat.

A bit like Violet. Same demeanour, slightly taller though. That little bit of an entitled air. Why did he know her?

That small amount of curiosity was enough for him not to throw her out of the cab. And he had already deduced she wasn't a journalist.

With a weary sigh, he joined the unknown client (of course she was! Why else was she hounding him! A murderer would be more discreet). She fiddled with the clasp on her handbag as Sherlock bid the cabbie to take them to Heathrow, Terminal 5.

"You've made a mistake and you're looking to me to get you out of it," he deduced as the cab pulled away from the kerb.

A sharp intake of breath, as expected.

She pulled off her shades and wiped a tear from her lower lashes. Of course he knew her! And his initial deduction now made perfect sense.

"Stuart Jire has been convicted of both Lauren Myrtle's murder and the assault on you," he told her. "He confessed to Lauren's murder, but he's a little cagey on the details of your assault. Said he was too drunk to remember. And you couldn't identify the assailant with any real confidence. Since he was already a self-confessed murderer, you thought you could live with a possible wrongful conviction for your own assault, except… you have the unsettling feeling you're being followed. You think the person who assaulted you is still out there."

Chenoa Burton let out a shuddering breath.

"Wow," she breathed, her eyes wide. "She said you were brilliant, but I'd also heard you're a bit of an arsehole. I was hoping I'd get the brilliant detective and not the arsehole."

Sherlock decided to ignore that remark.

"You came to me after Violet left for Australia," he said. Was this a new trend? First Mycroft, and now Ms Burton. "You didn't want her to worry," he went on.

Of course Violet Hunter would worry. She had accompanied Chenoa to court, while Sherlock had managed to avoid it, only hearing details as reported by Violet upon her return home. Before the assault on Chenoa, Sherlock had taught his girlfriend how to conduct covert surveillance, using her _Regency Road_ co-star as an example. Violet already suspected Chenoa was secretly dating the sleazy studio exec Stuart Jire. Their surveillance confirmed this fact. Given they'd done nothing about enlightening Violet's friend as to the gossip concerning Jire and his possible involvement in Lauren Myrtle's death, Violet had been ridden with guilt.

"She's such a caring soul," Chenoa offered. "But you're right. I know she'll worry about me, so I thought it'd be the perfect time to ask you to take my case—while she was away. Will you?"

Sherlock ruminated for a few seconds. Not one secret case, but two. Could he do this?

Taking on two cases and solving them both wasn't his concern. Not telling his girlfriend about them was his biggest and only worry at this stage. When they had reconciled earlier in the year, Violet had stipulated that they not keep secrets from one another.

Unless they were happy secrets, she had added.

Ah! A technicality!

If Sherlock solved both cases, Violet would be extremely happy with him!

Therefore: happy secrets!

"Of course," Sherlock eventually replied, a smile tugging at one corner of his mouth. "But as I said, I'm going away for a bit. I'll get to work on it as soon as I return. Text me your contact details."

"I will."

Chenoa looked through the cab's windscreen and said, "You can drop me off here, if you like."

Sherlock bid the cabbie to pull over after the next intersection.

"Do you have somewhere to stay where you'll feel safe?" he asked Chenoa after he handed the driver a tenner.

"Yes," she replied. "I'm staying with Priyal."

"Good," Sherlock said, grabbing the door handle. "I'll contact you when I return."

"Oh, no!" exclaimed Chenoa. "This is your cab."

"No, it's raining. You take this one. I'll grab another."

After alighting, Sherlock pulled up his collar against the needles of rain. He scanned the length of the street for another cab. Two challenging cases in as many days. He chuckled to himself, his eyes glistening. What other treats would await him while his girlfriend was away?

#

Violet flopped down onto the sofa and asked, "Why didn't you give me the phone when he rang? It was only five minutes ago." She checked her messages to see if Dan had also sent her a text, but was momentarily distracted by a message Sherlock had sent in the early hours of the morning, telling her he would be away on a case and probably not contactable.

"Why's he calling himself _Daniel_?" Mandi said, holding a nail polish brush to her toe. Her P.A. knew Danny from their Manchester days, but hadn't recognised him when he'd phoned for Violet.

"Maybe he thought you were a studio… person," Violet replied vaguely.

Where was Sherlock headed? she thought, rereading his message.

She rose from her seat. Perhaps her call to Danny was one she should make from the privacy of her bedroom.

"Well, anyway," Mandi said, "you were blow-drying your hair."

Pausing in the doorway of her room, Violet said, "From now on, can you add Dan to the list of people you can interrupt me for. You know, along with my agents…" Mandi had neglected to tell Violet that Bre Norton, her Los Angeles-based rep had phoned the other day.

"And your _boyfriend,_ " Mandi volunteered.

"Yes. My boyfriend. Sherlock Holmes."

"You know, you coming to Australia for two months is the best thing that could've happened to you."

"Mandi, what did I say?"

Violet had stipulated, before they left London, that Mandi wasn't allowed to comment on Violet's relationship with Sherlock any more. Not after Violet had thrown away the questionnaire Mandi had filled in on her friend's behalf (the result, Mandi had finally announced, that her relationship was definitely toxic and she should dump Sherlock's sorry arse). If Mandi wanted to remain Violet's personal assistant, Violet said, then she was prohibited from making remarks about her private life with Sherlock Holmes.

"I'm not talking about the awful way he treats you."

"Mandi!"

"I'm just saying it's a good thing for you, personally. Who knows… you might meet some other… interesting people."

Violet closed the door to her bedroom and tapped on Danny's number.

"Oh, eh, Vi," he answered almost immediately. "I'm not interrupting you am I?"

"No, no, I'm just getting ready for the day."

Violet enlightened Dan about her life on set since arriving in Australia.

"How's Manchester?" she then asked.

"Well, that's why I'm ringing," he said. "With all the to-ing and fro-ing to keep an eye on things at Kabuki's down south, I've now moved to London. Permanently."

Violet called almost hear Dan's chest swelling with pride as he spoke. So Jake had handed over the responsibility of the club to Danny?

"Wow… that's… that's great," she said. "You're living in London now?"

"Yeah, well, I was going to ring you to catch up for a drink — my shout," he finished, laughing lightly. "But I realised you were busy… so I googled you. Australia, eh? The land downunder."

"I'll be back in November. We can catch up then. But you know, you can ring me any time. Or text."

Violet immediately identified the source of the tightness in her chest. If Dan was no longer in Manchester, then who'd look out for Emily and Riley, the drug-addicted friends she had originally stayed with when she'd first fled London for Manchester, even before she'd met Mandi.

"So, Dan, I have to ask…"

"Yeah, I know what you're going to ask," he said. "He's fine. One hundred percent recovered from his injuries."

Dammit. He was talking about Jake.

"Oh… that's good," Violet replied.

"And he's sorted out the ringleaders. Gave them a stern talking to."

Those involved in attacking Jake, Violet concluded. On Sebastian Moran's orders. And God only knew what a 'stern talking to' meant.

"And how's Emily? And Riley?" She may as well be direct.

She heard Danny's loud exhale.

"Look, to be completely honest with you, Vi, you have to let them go. There's nowt that can be done for them. You've tried. I've tried."

Her stomach dropped. A long time ago, after she and Jake had broken up but had become friends afterwards, she had him promise to keep an eye on her heroin-addicted friends. He'd offered to pay their rent, and had Dan check up on them.

"Yes, I know," she said wearily. "And I'm sorry Jake passed the responsibility onto you. Not that he's responsible, or any of us, really. I just…" Her eyes stung and she couldn't finish her sentence. Why did she care so much? Now that she was in Australia, she was even further away from their shitty little flat in Manchester. She hadn't just physically moved away from them. They were world's apart anyway. Dan was right. She should let them go.

"Hey, I'll ask a mate of mine, a good lad he is," Danny said. "He'll go round and check for you. Okay? Maybe hit the landlord over the head with a lamp if he gets out of line."

Danny chuckled. He was teasing her about the time she'd lost it and had to call him out to help clean up her mess. The landlord. The lamp. That was all her. She'd gone out to dinner with Sherlock afterwards, and they'd had a row. He walked out on her and didn't return for five hours! Such a horrible time for them.

"Thanks, Danny," she said quietly.

"It's nothing. But, hey, I actually need your help this time."

A faint buzzing sounded in her head.

"Sure," she said eventually, busying herself by slipping on her shoes. Danny had never asked her for a favour in her life! What kind of skewed relationship did they have if she was always asking for his help and not vice-versa?

"Really it's about your boyfriend," he began, and Violet's heart jolted a little. "Sherlock Holmes," he explained, unnecessarily. "I think I need a private detective."

Violet exhaled in relief, a little bewildered. Dan wanted to hire Sherlock?

"What for?" she asked.

#

Violet would allow herself three glasses and no more. The warmth of the first drizzled through her. God, she'd be tipsy after one at this rate! There was a lot to be said for abstaining.

"And so Chelsea went to the press," Joe said, tilting his head towards Violet, his eyes already drunken slits. "An intimate interview, she told me. Bullshit. Published online so millions could read that we'd broken up before I'd even heard about it."

"Wow, that's rough," Violet remarked, taking another sip of her wine.

Joe had obviously started drinking earlier, or perhaps he had quickly guzzled his first few.

There were several reasons for the studio party that night: the birth of the Production Manager's first grandchild; Violet's co-star Brad turning 21 the day before; and thirdly, all of the cast were now on location.

And perhaps Joe had his own reasons to drown his sorrows. Or did he? The break up of Aussie actor Joseph Irkhardt and American model Chelsea Papazoglou was old news. Violet remembered hearing about it over a month ago. Or were they on again - off again?

But seeing Joe like this was a timely reminder to Violet that behind every scandalous headline there were real people involved. How could she, of all people, forget that?

Violet sipped her wine, emitting sympathetic hums which only encouraged Joe to continue. She longed to glance at her phone, in case Sherlock had replied to her message about Dan Corlionne wanting to hire him for a case. A legitimate case. She hoped Sherlock didn't think it was a setup that somehow involved Jake. Dan wasn't like that. He didn't have her ex-boyfriend's cunning. And besides, Danny would never betray Violet's trust.

"Don't let the sad puppy dog eyes fool you," said a crisp English voice.

Violet turned to see Timothy Killaney accompanied by James Moriarty. Timothy clapped Joe on the back.

"Find a seat, my friend," he said, "before you fall over."

Joe stumbled over to a table where a rowdy group had gathered, which included two of their other co-stars, Ethan and Heath, while Jim greeted Violet with a firm handshake.

"Violet Hunter. Hello again."

Violet was surprised the Etienne-Lumiere studio exec was still around after his attendance at the cast readthrough earlier in the week. She imagined he had flown back to the studio's head office in L.A.

"Jim and I were just talking about potential future projects," Timothy said. "And I can't for the life of me remember that novel you mentioned back in London, ages ago. That reclusive author? Your favourite novel, you said it was."

"Oh," Violet said, blinking a little. She and Tim had a conversation about their bucket list of roles they'd love to play some day—a very drunken conversation at Spence's birthday bash, when Sherlock had deduced that Tim and Spence were a couple. She didn't think Tim would remember the conversation about their ideal roles. "Canning Town," she replied. "By Stacia Jecks."

"Yes! That's the one."

"I've not heard of it," Jim replied.

"Jecks is a bit of a recluse," Timothy explained. "Over the years, she's shunned every request to option Canning Town."

"I'd love to play Stacey Jackson," Violet volunteered. "It's semi-autobiographical, the novel," she added with a smile. "Stacia's own life story, but she's never given interviews or made press releases."

"Violet possesses an amazing skill of inhabiting a character fully," Tim said, to Violet's surprise. "She's got an enormous emotional range and vulnerability that makes her perfect for the role." She felt herself flush and she directed a grateful smile to Tim. "Jecks put her heart and soul into this novel and hasn't written another word since," he added. "Isn't that right?"

Violet nodded, directing her attention to Jim, curious about his reaction to Timothy's glowing assessment.

Jim folded his arms across his chest, then rubbed a finger across his lips as if deep in thought. The gesture reminded her of Sherlock. How odd for her to affix somebody else's actions to a memory of her boyfriend, a man who seemed so unique in everything he did and said.

"Sounds like she just needs the right person to pitch a proposal to her," Jim said.

Violet's insides fluttered. Now her idea was out in the open, as if it was going to take on a life of its own, with no input or control from her. It was as if someone had posted her secret plans onto a billboard, for anyone to scrutinise and run with.

"I doubt she'd even agree to a meeting," she said, her throat feeling tight.

A smile spread across Timothy's face.

"Jim's got a way with people," he said.

"And every person has their pressure point," Jim added. "Something they want. Something they don't want. Easy peasy."

What an odd thing to say, Violet thought.

"Author's get so sentimental about their novels," he murmured, a comment that caused Violet's stomach to coil in knots. Was it just her, or was this man a little left of centre? She looked to Timothy for confirmation, but her friend had an odd sort of smile fixed to his face.

Jim unfolded his arms and shoved his hands into his trouser pockets.

"Well, I'd better be off," he said conversationally, as if to shrug off the ominous cloak he'd just been wearing. "I've got a flight back to London."

"Yes," Timothy said, turning to him. "I'll walk you out."

"Violet," Jim said, extending his hand to her. As she returned his handshake, he added, "Lovely to see you again. Next time we'll have a proper chat."

"Will you be returning to Australia?" she asked.

"No, I don't think so," he replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "I've got a lot going on out there in the world—other business interests. I don't think I'll finish catching up with them all by the time production wraps here. But you'll be hearing from me about Canning Town. You're rep'd by Stoper Westaway Talent in the UK aren't you?"

"Ah, yes," Violet replied. "Polly Stoper."

"That's good. Polly's a fantastic operator. Well… I'll see you later."

"Back soon," Timothy said, with a nod to Violet.

She watched the pair walk away together, heads bowed as if deep in conversation. Violet drained the rest of her second wine and looked across the room. Mandi was regaling Violet's hair and makeup artists with some outrageous anecdote. The director, Max Burnott, conducted a small gathering around him, gesturing rather animatedly.

Violet made her way to the drinks table and poured herself another wine.

That's three, she thought, taking a sip.

She'd better call it a night very soon.

She joined the group listening to Max but couldn't concentrate on his tale of working on an outrageous sci-fi movie in his student days.

James Moriarty had some kind of influence in the film industry, she was sure. He had a weird confidence and odd self-assurance. She had to find out what his background was. His title was Chief Operating Officer. Nothing to do with production. Of course, she could ask Sherlock to investigate, but then he'd worry. He'd asked her to spell Max Burnott's surname so he could find out all about the director before Violet left for Australia. And then there was the production staff and co-stars on _Catherine Hilderness_ and Justin and Virginia from Splendor Pictures. Sherlock meant well, but his concern was a little overbearing at times.

No, she would have to put off telling her boyfriend about Jim Moriarty until she learnt a little bit more about the man herself.

#


	11. I've Been Expecting This For Some Time

**Chapter 11 - I've Been Expecting This for Some Time**

The second unit crew had temporarily moved to Mount Tamborine, in the Gold Coast hinterland for filming rainforest scenes. Filming had wrapped for the day. The cast and crew relaxed around the pool and BBQ area of the holiday lodge the studio had secured for the period they were filming there. Violet pored over a book with Joe, Mandi and Heath. It had been given to Heath by a well-meaning friend back home in California. The book listed every Australian animal and plant that could kill people.

Sherlock had returned to London and told Violet his assignment away had been quite lack-lustre. She was thankful he agreed to talk to Dan about his case, even going so far as to say Dan could visit him in Baker Street or he could go to Kabuki's, or they could meet in a discreet neutral location. Violet was on tenterhooks for twenty-four hours until she heard from Sherlock, and later, Dan, that they had met in an East London curry house and Sherlock was on the case.

Violet and Sherlock communicated almost daily, either via text or Skype or voice messages left at odd hours of a morning. Sherlock listened patiently to her updates, asking pointed questions here and there, especially when names were mentioned. Violet still kept Jim Moriarty's offer and name out of their conversations. The man seemed to have vanished into thin air anyway, and Timothy Killaney had little to offer in the way of information, saying he'd only met the C.O.O. during pre-production on _Anuket's Children_ three years earlier. Nor did Jim contact her about _Canning Town_ and the reclusive author Stacia Jecks.

For Sherlock's part, he remained vague about the so-called interesting cases he was working on, but very specific about the dull ones. Violet suspected he hadn't solved the highly-rated ones, and would wait for success before regaling Violet with the details of his brilliance. Excitement bubbled inside her at the thought. She told him she couldn't wait to work on cases with him again. His only response was, "Oh," as if this surprised him.

Violet's skin began to crawl at the photos of the scars left on the skin by box jellyfish tentacles, so she moved away from the group in search of a refill for her iced tea.

"Violet," Lynda Chan-Beatty, the producer called to her. Violet turned towards the decorative bridge that spanned a small section of the resort pool where Lynda and her companion crossed. "Have you met Hersch Gleitzman?"

Gleitzman's presence was a bit hard to miss. The man wore a Hawaiian shirt for heaven's sake. It billowed around his expansive girth like a tarpaulin on a high-rise building under refurbishment.

"Mr Gleitzman," Violet said, forcing a smile to her face as her hand was enveloped in his. The man was old-style Hollywood with the unshaven jawline of a Mafia boss.

"No, please, call me Hersch," he said, in his gruff New York accent. What was missing, Violet thought, was a large cigar to chew on.

His eyes dropped to Violet's cleavage and she immediately felt exposed. She'd opted for the sarong-style dress Mandi had purchased for her in a surf shop along Broadbeach for this humid evening under the stars. Its halter-neck top dipped between her breasts and now she regretted wearing it. Her skin prickled, but this time it had nothing to do with redback spiders or box jellyfish.

"I'll leave you both to chat," Lynda said.

What was Violet thinking? The man was probably nice. Wasn't he a creative genius? Or at least very savvy in the business of film production. She should cut him some slack. She didn't even know him. Perhaps she shouldn't pay attention to her initial instincts and the rumour mill.

 _Pay attention to your initial instincts!_ Sherlock's voice echoed in her mind. _I've already deduced six different reasons why you should feel uncomfortable in his presence. And the rumour mill may be onto something._

Six, Sherlock? she thought faintly.

Oh, how she wished he really stood by her side, instead of in her imagination, to hold her hand and steer her away if necessary.

"What do you think?" Gleitzman asked her, sweeping a hand to take in their surroundings. "A far cry from London."

"It's beautiful," she replied, clasping her hands together.

His eyes flicked toward her cleavage again. Violet tilted her chin as if she could somehow encourage him to keep his gaze above her collar bone.

"Are you… doing work with the studio?" she asked. Because why was he here, otherwise? He was an independent producer, in opposition to the studios.

"The studio wants _Glitz and Gomorrah_ ," he said, in reference to a long-awaited historic drama about Hollywood itself and acquired by Gleitzman and Co. "And I want use of the studio—the lot, the sound stages. All of it." He bent his head and lowered his voice, adding, "They wanna get into my pants. And I might let them."

Violet automatically hunched her shoulder, her thoughts fraying.

Gleitzman straightened up, chuckling.

"But that's not what I want to talk to you about," he went on. "I hear _Arthur Avenue_ is in trouble. Script rewrites, finance trouble. Bit of a drama getting the permits from the city for filming. Gleitzman and Co. are ready to swoop in and save the day. And you, young lady, are definitely part of negotiations."

"I-I'm sorry?"

She had no idea. What rewrites? What trouble with finance?

… What negotiations?

"Don't worry," he said, curling a light hand around Violet's upper arm. He gave her a couple of affectionate pats. "You and I can save the day." He smiled as Violet found herself frowning. Before pulling his hand away, his thumb lightly skimmed her bare skin, ever so briefly. Violet took a step backwards, automatically recoiling.

"I'll get my assistant to arrange a meeting next week," Gleitzman said, oblivious, before winking and turning from her. "Heath Camblin!" he called out to her co-star.

Violet felt her skin flush before she forced herself to breathe again.

What just happened?

Gleitzman had grabbed Heath in a bear hug and Violet scanned the immediate vicinity for Mandi. Where was she? Wasn't she with this group a minute ago?

She needed her P.A.

Rewrites. Finance troubles. Drama with permits. What the fuck was going on?

Violet strode through the tropical garden outdoor area towards the restaurant.

"Mandi!" she called when she spied her friend at the cocktail bar. "Get Splendor Pictures on the phone… no, wait! Ring Justin's direct line… And then phone Bre Norton. See if she knows anything about—"

"Wait, Vi," Mandi said, frowning at her phone. "Isn't it the middle of the night in New York?"

"It doesn't matter. Leave messages." Violet lowered her voice. "I've just been speaking to Hersch Gleitzman, and he said—"

"Ooh, yeah, I saw that!" Mandi leant in conspiratorially. "Stay on his good side, whatever you do!"

"What?"

"He has a golden touch. Oscars! And I've heard he can make or break careers."

Violet momentarily opened and closed her mouth. She knew this, but where was this all leading?

"What message do you want me to leave?" Mandi asked, readjusting herself as if reasserting her professionalism.

Violet mentally shook herself. She needed to concentrate right now.

"I need an update on the status of _Arthur Avenue,_ " she told Mandi. "And I may have a meeting with Gleitzman and I want to know what his relationship with Splendor Pictures is now and into the future." Pausing to draw in a steadying breath, she added, "Can you prepare a plate of food for me when the buffet comes out? I'll take it in our room. I've had enough for one evening."

#

"Hello," Sherlock said, allowing his smile to leech into his voice.

"Hi."

It was more of a sigh than a greeting. Sherlock deduced Violet had settled into the sofa or against the pillows of her bed, satisfied upon hearing his voice at last, after a week of mismatched schedules.

"How's your wrist?" he asked her, juggling his phone between his ear and shoulder as he shrugged on his jacket.

"Better," she said with a tiny hum that told him she was rotating it. "But I'm so annoyed with myself. I'm supposed to come out of this roll, then twist and turn and catch my staff, but I'm fucking it up. At this rate, they'll use Heidi's take, not mine. I deserve this! I've trained so hard for it. It should be me, but I'm not making the catch in that fucking costume!"

"Mm," said Sherlock, at a loss for words.

"And I'm so fucking tired all the time. I think it's the heat."

Sherlock attempted a discreet sigh.

"Everyone's around the pool having a typical Aussie barbie," she went on.

"A what?"

"But I'm up here, hiding away in the air-conditioning… I'm sorry." Violet's voice dropped a notch. "I wanted to talk to you. I've missed this… this end of the day debrief, even if you don't understand or care about the details." Sherlock's heart twinged. He thought he was making an effort. "We're at the stage of this block where everyone's getting on each other's nerves," Violet continued, unabated, "and Julia—she's the second unit director—she's more desperate to make the day… and…"

"How about chocolate?" Sherlock suggested.

"What?"

"Chocolate. To give you that extra boost when you're shooting those physically gruelling scenes. Ask at cast services."

"Craft services. And I'm not allowed to have chocolate."

"Who said? And your abstinence will make it twice as potent."

Violet huffed a small laugh.

"Enough about me," she said. And her sigh indicated she had slipped even lower between the sheets or along the sofa. "Tell me about your week."

He knew what she was doing. She loved to fall asleep listening to his soothing voice. But before he could respond, he was momentarily distracted by footfalls on the staircase.

"Look, I'd love to," he replied, walking over and picking up his wallet from the living room table, "but John's just shown up and we're about to head off to Kabuki Pirates to see Dan."

"Oh." The disappointment in her voice was palpable. "You're going… with John?"

"Well, he came with me when Dan and I had our first meeting at the curr—"

"You took John because you were worried it might have been a set up?"

"Nice deduction. The thought had occurred."

"Please don't tell me you asked him to take his gun."

"O-kay," Sherlock said carefully.

A few seconds of silence elapsed while Sherlock slipped his wallet into his jacket.

"Sherlock!"

Looks like she understood what that silence meant.

"I have to go," Sherlock said. "John's here." He smiled at his ex-flatmate who was crossing the threshold. "You just get… get the 5th AD to smuggle you some chocolate onto set."

"There's no such person as a 5th AD."

"Hi, Violet!" John called out.

"That was John," Sherlock said.

"I know. Tell him I said hi."

"Violet says hello. I'll… um…"

Sherlock made a beeline towards the kitchen.

"Ring me the moment you wake," he finished, his voice pitched low.

"Why?"

"Just do it. Skype me, in fact."

"I was going to sleep in. It'll be Saturday here and my first call isn't til 3pm."

"Even better."

He had to see her the second she woke up, tired and dishevelled, with creases between her brows because she didn't want to be awake. His heart stuttered at the memory of her body warmed from sleep, her lips soft and pliant.

Best not get worked up now.

A late sleep in for Violet meant it would be later in the evening for Sherlock. He could settle into his bedroom. Into his bed.

What had he become?

"Okay," Violet replied, sighing. "I was hoping to fall asleep listening to you."

"Yes, I know. I'm sorry. We'll get the timing right one day."

He paused and ducked his head, holding the phone closer to his mouth. Even though he was out of sight of John, he said, in a voice barely above a whisper, "I love you."

"Are you hiding in the kitchen now?" Violet asked, with a light laugh.

Sherlock chuckled.

"You're getting quite good at making deductions," he responded.

"Well, I love you, too," Violet said in a rather unnecessary whisper.

Sherlock ended the call with a "call me later." It sounded rather needy and desperate. God, how long had they been apart now? Separation should've become easier, not harder.

"Ready, John?"

Exiting the flat to hail a cab with John Watson by his side felt like old times. With the unsuccessful trip to Paris, where Sherlock deduced Irene Adler had been playing a deliberate game of cat and mouse, Sherlock had insisted to Mycroft that he be allowed to bring John Watson into his confidence.

"I know what she's doing," he had told his brother. "She's testing me. Observing me. Finding out if I'm worthy to approach. And I want John around in case she does."

Adler made it her business to photograph her clients in compromising situations just in case she needed something from them in the future. And why wouldn't she do the same to Sherlock Holmes? The media would love to get hold of an ambiguous photo such as the great Consulting Detective (or was his official title 'Violet Hunter's boyfriend'?) meeting with a dominatrix who owned her own URL. Sherlock had seen the pictures of Violet around the Gold Coast with her co-stars, and one co-star in particular: Joseph Irkhardt. Deliberate cropping could tell another story entirely.

"We were all at the club," Violet had quickly explained during a previous phone call. "They've cropped the photo so it looks like it's only Joe and I having an intimate conversation in a corner booth." He had sighed and told Violet she didn't need to explain anything. Although, having the knowledge last year that an image caught at 1/250th of a second didn't necessarily prove infidelity may have saved him three months of heartache.

In the cab, John cleared his throat and patted his jacket pocket.

"Didn't know if you still wanted me to bring this…"

"Oh," Sherlock replied. "I think we can assume Dan Corlionne is entirely trustworthy."

Their first meeting with the nightclub manager in the curry house had been benign. Sherlock asked Dan to explain to John (since Violet had already informed Sherlock) as to why he wanted to hire Sherlock Holmes specifically. Sherlock quietly observed Dan as he spoke, making sure facial gestures and body language matched his assertions. The man appeared genuine, although half of Sherlock's observations were about detecting how much the man in front of him still loved Sherlock's girlfriend.

Dan wanted to run a legitimate business, he told John. He suspected an employee was either smuggling in drugs to sell during business hours, or allowing it to happen. If Dan didn't prevent this, he could wind up getting himself arrested for permitting the sale of prohibited substances on premises he managed. Dan didn't want to inform Jake Venucci, the owner of the club, because he wanted to keep everything above board. Sherlock deduced the real meaning behind Dan's statement: the newly appointed Kabuki's manager didn't want his employees or any other related party found mysteriously washed ashore on the banks of the Thames.

"I'll deal with them meself," he said. "Blacklist them from the club, or if they work for me, fire them. And that's it. Keep it quiet, if you know what I mean."

And anyone else hired for the job of investigating his suspicions may mouth off to Jacob Venucci about their findings, if they wanted to impress someone of his standing. Dan knew of at least three private detectives who also undertook paid work for Venucci. The only private detective Dan could trust not to be in Venucci's pocket was Sherlock Holmes.

Sherlock advised Dan that his arrest would likely be as a result of a raid by the Metropolitan Police after months of investigation, namely, having officers regularly attending as patrons of the club. Perhaps even buying the drugs themselves. To detect both dealers and undercover police, Sherlock would either have to attend the club himself, or pore over surveillance footage. Since both punters and police may know Sherlock Holmes by sight, it seemed the latter was the only option.

Not very exciting, this Friday morning outing of theirs: to retrieve the surveillance files from the nightclub and double-check the layout. While they were there, Sherlock also advised Dan that he ought to install additional cameras in the alleyway by the rear door. Images of Violet being assaulted by a former bartender of the nightclub still featured heavily in Sherlock's thoughts.

"Bit different, in daylight," John remarked of the club as they made their way by cab back to Baker Street.

Sherlock twirled the memory stick containing the surveillance files between his fingers.

"Mm," he agreed distractedly.

John appeared to wait a beat before asking, "So, what else are you working on?" He could barely hide the eagerness in his voice.

"Ah… this and that," Sherlock replied.

He pondered telling John about the Chenoa Burton case. He'd only progressed as far as determining that her assault was somehow related to Lauren Myrtle. Jire assaults Lauren, leading to her death, then is most likely framed for the copycat assault on Chenoa. Was someone punishing Jire for Lauren's death? Sherlock hadn't had time to investigate further upon his return to London. A second pair of eyes would be very useful on this case, and Chenoa had stipulated he keep this from Violet.

"Actually," he went on, "there is something, but you have to swear not to tell Violet about it until we've solved it."

"Sounds intriguing."

"I'll update you upstairs," Sherlock replied, as the cab pulled up outside 221.

Upon entering the flat, John told Sherlock he'd just go and say hello to Mrs Hudson.

Halfway up the stairs, Sherlock remembered his landlady spent Friday mornings with Mrs Booth.

Nevermind. John will discover that for himse—

Sherlock paused on the landing. An odd draught snaked its way through the doorway leading to the kitchen. Inhaling sharply, he crossed the threshold. A new scent tickled his nostrils. Perfume. The base note of jasmine still lingered, along with a rapidly fading heart note of… what was it… juniper? Not Mrs Hudson's and definitely not Violet's.

Sherlock spied the small window at the rear of the kitchen. He hastened over to it, and pushed on it, confirming it was ajar. He sniffed again. The warm air from a recently used shower reached the kitchen. As John's footfalls resonated up the stairwell, Sherlock cautiously made his way along the passageway at the back of the kitchen towards his bedroom.

He stared down at the figure curled up underneath his bedsheets.

"She's not in," John remarked, striding into the kitchen.

"We have a client," Sherlock told him.

"What, in your bedroom?" John asked, making his way towards him, a touch of humour in his tone.

The figure stirred as John came to a halt beside Sherlock.

"Oh."

#

"If I'm not back in half an hour, you go ahead without me. I'll catch up."

"Violet Hunter can't be seen wandering around the streets by herself."

"Then wait for me in the bar."

"I'm not ready," Mandi said, picking up her hair straightener again.

"I'll see you back here, then," Violet said, with a sigh.

She left her friend and headed down to the poolside bar on the first floor of their Broadbeach hotel. Violet was filming back on the coast—fight scenes on the backlot of the studio, and some of the cast and crew were heading out for fish and chips this evening. But Violet had a last minute meeting beforehand.

In the lift, Violet checked her phone once more. Still no return calls from Sherlock. He'd been very cagey this last week. She'd done as he had requested, and skyped him the minute she woke up last Saturday morning, but he didn't pick up and later messaged her that he couldn't take her call. Throughout the week, his messages came sporadically, and phone calls were abruptly ended with a quick, "Have to go. Talk later." Anyone would think he was a grounded teenage boy making sly calls to his friends in the middle of the night!

Violet's heart began to thump as she crossed the lobby.

Hersch Gleitzman, for fuck's sake. A meeting! Mandi had gleefully passed the message on to Violet, but Violet was still bewildered as to why he wanted to talk to her.

Speaking to Splendor Pictures earlier in the week, Justin Behmes told her they had already met with Gleitzman. They'd informed him they weren't interested in his production company buying out Splendor Pictures. Pre-production hiccups were par for the course, he told her. She had nothing to worry about.

"We did invite him to invest in our film, though," Justin added, "but he graciously declined. Look, if he wants to talk to you, it's probably about some other project he has you in mind for. That's great, Violet! Keep an open mind!"

Violet's U.S. agent, Bre Norton, had made similar comments, although she had instructed Violet to, "agree to everything, but sign nothing."

Violet scanned the bar area. Patrons either perched on stools stretched along the oak and chrome bar, or sat in comfortable cane chairs around low tables in groups of three or four. No sign of the great man.

Just as Violet started picking her way around the tables, a woman's voice in an American accent called to her. Violet spun around, recognising the woman as Gleitzman's P.A.

"I'm Marcia," she said. "Now Hersch is very, very busy." She placed a light hand on the small of Violet's back and gestured towards the hotel lobby. "He'll have to take your meeting in between his other calls, I'm afraid. You're very lucky he can see you at all tonight. He has to fly out at midnight." She waved her phone in front of her and added, "If I can get a booking on this damn thing."

The hair on the back of Violet's neck prickled as Marcia ushered her along.

"I'm sorry," Violet said. "Where are we going?"

"To Hersch's suite," Marcia said, as if that was the most obvious thing in the world.

#


	12. Rich and Powerful and Necessary

**Chapter 12 - Rich and Powerful and Necessary**

Striding along the fifth floor corridor towards her room, Violet's heart pounded, her face flushed. While her fists remained clenched, there was an unbearable pressure on her tear ducts. Cry or punch the wall? Either option seemed just as likely.

Is this how it's meant to be?

Game playing and… innuendo.

 _That wasn't innuendo. You couldn't get more obvious than that._

"…probably left it on my bed," a voice spoke behind her, floating around the corner from the direction of the lifts she had just left. "You go down. I won't be moment."

Violet lifted her keycard to the reader on her door, wanting to escape into her room before Timothy Killaney saw her; she recognised his voice. But he entered the corridor just as she swiped.

"Violet!" he said, his lips stretching wide. She shot him a quick glance as he approached. "Are you coming to—" His smile faltered. "What's wrong?"

The light on the card reader clicked red. Violet bowed her head, exhaling sharply.

"You have to do it slowly," Tim said, coming up beside her. "Do you want me to try?"

"It's not… the fucking… card."

He appeared to freeze beside her. Perhaps he'd never heard her swear so ferociously before. In good humour, yes. Mild frustration, definitely.

Violet swiped again—slowly this time—and the reader clicked green.

"Are you…" Tim began again, tentatively she noticed, as Violet pushed open her door, "… coming to dinner?" Violet entered her room, holding the door open as she turned to answer Tim. "I just have to get my phone," he continued, gesturing along the corridor. "At least, I think I left it in my room." He seemed to study her, as if he thought she was a ticking time bomb.

"Can I talk to you for a moment?" Violet asked, her tone considerably calmer. "I…" Her throat began to close over, but the last thing she wanted to do was to burst into tears. "I think I've fucked up something."

Her eyes misted over and she turned and left the doorway, assuming Tim would follow her in.

"Sure. You can talk to me about anything," he said.

"That you, Vi?" Mandi called from the bathroom.

Violet sank down onto the sofa. Tim hesitated before taking the armchair opposite. He looked up as Mandi entered the room.

"How was the meet…. Oh! Hi, Tim."

"Mandi!" he said, immediately rising and making his way to Violet's P.A. "You look exquisite!"

Mandi blushed furiously as Tim gave her a peck on the cheek. She thanked Tim for the compliment. Violet resisted the urge to roll her eyes. He's fucking gay, she wanted to say to Mandi. Why couldn't the world know this?

"Vi had a meeting with Hersch Gleitzman," Mandi gushed to Tim as she dropped to the sofa next to Violet and he resumed his position opposite. "How'd it go?" she asked Violet.

Violet's heart rate hadn't quite returned to normal. Her pulse continued thudding in her ears.

"I'm not sure it was a meeting," she said, and she explained to Tim and Mandi how Gleitzman's P.A. had met Violet in the bar downstairs to advise her that Gleitzman could only see her in his hotel suite.

At this point, Tim sat up straighter, the spark of warm humour normally residing in his eyes extinguishing.

"Oh, that happens all the time," Mandi said, waving a dismissive hand. "As Marcia said, he's such a busy man. I bet he spends half his life having meetings away from his office."

Because of Mandi's flippant attitude, Violet kept her gaze on Tim as she began to detail her encounter with Hersch Gleitzman.

#

 _ **Twelve minutes earlier**_

"Go ahead," Marcia said, pushing the door inwards and gesturing to Violet to enter the room ahead of her.

When Marcia went to step back into the corridor, a cold hand gripped Violet's heart.

"Aren't you coming in?" she asked the P.A.

Marcia waved her phone around as she had done downstairs.

"I have to book Hersch's flight and I can't do it in the room while you're having a meeting. He hates the background noise. Go in for God's sake. He's expecting you! Hersch is on a very tight schedule here. You're very lucky."

For fuck's sake, thought Violet, as the door clicked shut behind her. I didn't call the fucking meeting.

The suite was similarly decorated to Violet's downstairs, but larger with an extra door possibly through to an adjoining room. The lights were dimmed and music played low.

Jazz.

Ugh.

All muted trumpets and piano tinkles. Violet never cared for it, probably because she didn't understand it. Nick had once taken her to a jazz bar in the basement of… somewhere. They'd gotten uproariously drunk. Violet recalled staggering along the street in fits of laughter as she tried to explain to Nick how much she hated jazz.

Oh, God, why was her mind scrambling for old memories?

Violet could hear Gleitzman's voice through the open door to what she assumed to be the bedroom. Obviously, he was taking a phone call. Scanning the room, she folded her arms in front of her, finishing on a painting above the sofa.

A beach, blue sky and surf and… Oh, dear God, she thought, her breath coming in short bursts.

Get a grip, Violet!

What am I doing here? I'm in a strange man's hotel suite, all alone.

 _Are you stupid or gullible or both?_ Sherlock asked her in her imagination. Not that he would use those words in reference to her.

Would he?

 _Oh, yes, he would_ , replied Mandi.

Marcia will be back soon, Violet told herself, hugging her elbows just that little bit tighter, her gaze locked on the painting.

"Won't be a sec," Gleitzman said behind her.

Violet emitted an almost imperceptible gasp and turned towards him. Her eyes widened at the sight of him. He was making his way back into the bedroom, phone pressed to his ear. Water beaded on his hairy shoulders and back.

 _He's wearing nothing but a fucking towel, Violet_ , spat Sherlock. _Half naked, dimmed lighting, mood music, and look over there… did you see it when you entered the room?_

She had seen it. A champagne bucket with two glasses.

 _He's wearing a fucking hotel-issued bath towel,_ Sherlock said again.

Stop swearing! You don't swear when you make observations, Sherlock.

 _This is you, remember, Violet._ You're _making the observations. You're just using my voice._

Violet sighed.

 _Nice observations, though,_ he added. And Violet could just make out the half smile he'd sometimes gift her with. His eyes would be twinkling with pride, too. Her heart twinged.

When the bedroom door eventually closed, Violet sighed with relief.

There, Sherlock, stop worrying. He's obviously getting dressed now. I just surprised him by arriving early.

 _Bollocks._

 _And I never worry._

 _I'm always in control of everything._

Then what's he going to do next, if you know so much?

 _He's going to—_

The bedroom door opened, and Gleitzman stepped out wearing a bathrobe.

 _Oh, for fuck's sake._

Oh, for fuck's sake.

"Sorry about that," Gleitzman said, walking over to the table where the champagne bucket sat. "Rodney from BIF. Do you know him?"

"No, sorr—"

"Banks Independent Films?" Gleitzman said, his back now to Violet as he lifted the champagne bottle. "Well, he's a cunt anyway."

 _Pot. Kettle._

Sherlock, be quiet!

"I'm not familiar with his work," Violet said, forcing a smile into her voice.

"You will be. Have a seat."

 _He's wearing a bathrobe, Violet._

Shh!

Gleitzman gestured towards the sofa with one of the champagne glasses he now held. Since she was nearest the sofa anyway, Violet took the two steps towards it and sank down.

 _No!_

Oh, dammit. Should've sat in the armchair.

 _You know the rules: never sit on a couch when there's a lecherous man around._

I know.

 _Yet you sat anyway._

I wasn't thinking.

 _Clearly_.

It was almost like shooting a scene where they'd already rehearsed the blocking. Violet had seen it all in preview a split second before it happened. Gleitzman rounded the coffee table and took his seat on the sofa next to Violet, his form taking up the rest of the two-seater.

 _Bathrobe!_

Stop it! He's just… eccentric.

Violet had already sat close to the edge, so she had no sofa left to move to. Gleitzman handed her a glass of champagne.

"Sorry," Violet said, holding up a hand in protest. "I never drink when I'm working."

"This isn't working."

"I mean… on set, tomorrow. It's a physically demanding role. I have to be in peak shape."

 _Oh, for fuck's sake_ , Sherlock said, as Gleitzman's eyes scanned Violet from breast to hip as if she'd just invited him to.

 _Feel that shiver running down your spine,_ Sherlock observed for her, _a fight or flight response. If you don't leave now, I'll be forced to headbutt him for you._

There's a time and a place for physical violence, Sherlock.

"My trainer will know and there'll be hell to pay," she added, with a sweet smile she knew didn't quite reach her eyes. "I must refuse."

 _Yes, very British, very polite. But is it enough to dissuade him? He is American after all._

Don't be so prejudiced!

"Suit yourself," Gleitzman said with a shrug. He placed both champagne glasses on the coffee table then leant back into the sofa with one armed resting along the back of it. In Violet's imagination, Sherlock rolled his eyes. " _Glitz and Gomorrah,"_ Gleitzman went on. "You're perfect for Mary Pickford."

Violet's mouth ran dry. This was a lead role!

"I… I heard they were looking at Asha Steeple for Mary," she remarked.

Gleitzman idly waved his hand.

"Asha's in everything. Over-saturation. The audience won't buy it."

Mary Pickford. The silent movie star. She _was_ Hollywood. America's sweetheart. But why did this gift of a role have to come wrapped in such repulsive packaging?

 _Oh, you think so too?_

Stop it, Sherlock!

"It sounds amazing," Violet said automatically.

Gleitzman suddenly straightened up and reached for the champagne before taking a swig.

"But we can talk about that later," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "Rodney interrupted me in the shower with his last minute panic. If you don't mind, I'd like to finish it."

 _Oh, God, Violet. You know what's coming._

He wouldn't dare.

As if in slow motion, Violet watched, in ever-growing horror, as a large hairy hand found a home on her knee.

"And you should join me."

Time ground to a halt. She stared into that massive face—the monstrous unshaven jawline, the small, beady eyes—her heart dropping heavily into the pit of her stomach. His sickly moist hand froze on her leg in the bubble of time she had hidden herself away in.

This wasn't happening.

 _You know it is, Violet. May I tell you what I see?_

Please do.

Sherlock's sharp intake of breath preceded the rest, which was spouted at a manic pace.

 _I see a fifty-eight year old man, way, way, way past his prime—if he ever had one. Business talent far outweighs his charm. Youngest boy in a family of all girls. Father abandoned them all at a young age. Clearly had no male role models, nobody to show him how to respect women. Or anyone, for that matter. Ugly both outside and in, low self-esteem, no relationships of any real depth, even his wife and children despise him. He has to abuse his position of power to influence young actresses into performing sexual acts on him. Yes, on him, because he's far too selfish to contribute. Morbidly obese, halitosis, small, small, small penis._

 _Am I right?_

It had all taken place in the blink of Violet's mind's eye, but imagined or real, Violet could only react the way she normally would in the wake of a brutal yet accurate deduction of Sherlock's.

Violet Hunter burst out laughing.

It was the absurdity of it all! Against the backdrop of original, vibrant, creative storylines from films produced by his company, he came up with this… this unoriginal, cliched, laughable scene.

The laughter continued bubbling inside her, but it was a joyous laugh, one that was punctuated with a tiny snort and brought tears to her eyes, because, once again, Sherlock Holmes had grounded her, even in his absence. He reminded her to see this situation for what it was. A sad, lonely, inexperienced man-child, trying to grope an attractive young woman who was supposed to be entranced by his mesmerising personality and enthralled by the power he wielded.

As her shoulders shook with mirth, she wondered how she now looked to Hersch Gleitzman—her eyes bright and moist from humorous tears, her hiccuping laughter continuing on, unabated.

And strangely enough, Gleitzman began to laugh, too, a low, closed-mouth rumble, though he sounded a little unsure. Violet took this opportunity to commence her escape.

Still chuckling, she patted his hand twice and quickly stood so that it slid from her knee.

"That's so funny!" she said. Gleitzman's own laugh stopped abruptly. Making her way around the coffee table, Violet added, "Oh, well, I won't keep you then. I know you've got a flight to catch—Marcia was just booking it." Gleitzman opened his mouth, but Violet powered on as she shifted towards the door. "It's a shame our meeting was cut short, but I'll look forward to your people contacting mine. Sounds like an exciting project." Grabbing the door handle, she reefed open the door. "Have a lovely evening. Goodnight!"

#

Violet looked from Tim to Mandi, then back again.

"Thank God he was only joking," Mandi remarked, rising from the sofa. "I don't know who Mary Pickford is, but I s'pose I'll hear from Marcia at some stage. Well, we'd better go. Everyone will already be there."

Violet narrowed her eyes at Tim as Mandi exited the living area for her handbag. Did he miss everything of importance, too?

"What do you think?" she asked him. "Is his behaviour normal? I don't think he was joking. I made him _think_ I took it as a joke."

"I know."

"So… do you think he's angry with me now? Is the role in jeopardy? I don't know if I'm supposed to report him to somebody. Am I?"

Timothy heaved out a weary sigh.

"Violet, Asha's got the part. She's already signed on for it. We share the same U.S. agent. That's how I know. I don't think he was serious about the role. It was just a…"

Mandi breezed back into the room at that point. Violet exchanged a look with Tim. She understood. The man had dangled a carrot in front of her, to get her to do his filthy bidding. There had never been a role in _Glitz and Gomorrah_ for her.


	13. Working with a Celebrity

**Chapter 13 - Working With a Celebrity**

 _ **October 2013**_

Sherlock pressed Send on his message to Violet. Gone were the days of a swift reply from her, or even the immediate phone call she would make upon assuming he was now contactable. How had their communication slipped from frequent Skype calls to infrequent text messages? He missed the conversations he had taken for granted in the early days of Violet on set—her enthusiastic recount of "wire work" or "blocking" or incidents she'd say would be relegated to the "blooper reel", whatever that was. Now all he received were texts proclaiming how tired she felt.

Sherlock scanned the platform at Euston Station, a figure catching his eye.

"You look chipper," John Watson said as he strode towards the Consulting Detective.

"I feel as if I'm on day release," Sherlock replied.

John fell into step beside him as they strode the length of the platform.

"Smile, you're on candid camera," John murmured, nodding in the direction of a figure further along the platform who was holding up a phone.

"Christ, they never stop," Sherlock muttered, before boarding the train.

"Must make working as a _private_ detective quite challenging."

"Mm."

As usual, John made a point of squinting at the rows and letters for their seats, while Sherlock made a beeline straight for them. Why was it so difficult for ordinary minds to understand a simple carriage configuration?

"How is it?" John asked as they settled into their seats.

Sherlock knew exactly what his friend was talking about.

"You have no idea."

"I have popped in from time to time. I have some idea."

"You 'pop in' then escape after five minutes."

"So… that bad, huh?"

"Worse. So let's talk about something else during my day at large."

John huffed a laugh then reached into his jacket pocket, producing a snack bag of fruit and nuts, which explained his last second dash to the Simply Food at the station, Sherlock deduced.

He quickly readjusted his focus and said, in a voice pitched low, "Lauren Myrtle had several occupations prior to becoming an actress, many of them during her time at drama school."

"Any that stick out?"

"Just the usual pub gigs and coffee shops. Before drama school, she travelled as an au pair for a bit, dotted with several stints at different times in a call centre in Blackpool."

"Family?"

"Only child. Parents died several years ago, far too long a period to have instigated a revenge stitch-up on Jire."

"Boyfriends? Girlfriends?"

"Next on my list of people to investigate."

John munched thoughtfully for a while. Sherlock leant back in his seat, his gaze drifting through the window.

The West Midlands Police had a more comprehensive file on Lauren, which they were agreeable in allowing Sherlock to peruse, but only from the CID office in Coventry.

"I'm thinking of heading to Blackpool after we've finished."

"Why?"

"Lauren's place of birth. Have to start somewhere."

"Are you aware we will be spending most of the day on trains?"

Sherlock quirked a smile. "Mycroft gave me twenty-four hours," he said. "I want to make the most of it."

"By getting as far away from London as possible."

"No. As far away from London as possible would be Australia." Sherlock sighed at the thought, his chest aching. "And it's not as if I have many other cases with which to distract myself."

"What about the snake in the ventilation shaft case?"

"It was a snake in the ventilation shaft."

"Yeah, but who put it there?"

"Doctor Roylott."

"Oh," John said, with a tiny nod. "Guess that seems obvious."

"Elementary."

"And the Spice case?"

"Letting it drop for now."

"What about Kabuki's nightclub?" John asked. "Dan pleased with the results?"

"Yes. He'll blacklist the undercover officers I identified and dismiss the bouncer and bartender involved. Case closed. Nobody ends up at the bottom of the Thames."

A smile grew on John's face.

"But you didn't invoice him," he stated.

"What better person to owe me a favour? I told him 'a friend of Violet's' and all that."

"'A friend of Violet's…'?" prompted John.

"…is in a perfect position for handing me the rope with which to hang Jacob Venucci," Sherlock finished. "But you didn't hear me say that."

"No. Violet would have your balls for Christmas decorations."

Smiling indulgently, Sherlock redirected his gaze through the train window.

"Do you miss her?"

Sherlock blinked against the light dappling through the foliage on the side of the tracks. The question took him by surprise.

"I can't even remember the last time we had sex," he replied, briefly distracted by distant memories. "I suspect it took place between a single-stick battle and a cup of tea."

John snorted out a laugh, prompting Sherlock to clear his throat when he realised his admission. He sat up taller. But what did he care, really? He was talking to his supposed best friend after all.

"I sleep on one side of the bed," he went on, "instead of the middle. When she first left, I was constantly surprised there was still hot water whenever I ran a bath. My bedroom floor was clear of clutter and my time researching and experimenting was quiet and uninterrupted."

"Not so much these days."

"Unfortunately, not."

"But one side of the bed is still cold."

"Yes, it is," Sherlock lamented.

John chuckled.

"Well, you've changed," he said.

"I'd prefer to say 'enlightened'. How about you? Married life must suit you. You've put on seven pounds since the wedding."

"No… no. This is a new shirt. Mary bought it for me. Bit small."

Leaning in, Sherlock said, "Are you forgetting who I am?"

"Desperately trying to."

#

Having finished shooting on location at a shopping mall at three in the morning, Violet fell into bed, fully clothed. The idea that she could ring Sherlock at a reasonable hour (London-time) clashed with her decision to keep things simple through texting. Skype calls were now out of the question, because he'd read her expression in seconds. Voice calls were also dismissed, because that went the same for her tone of voice. She knew if she heard his voice or saw him, she'd burst into tears, even though weeks had passed since her 'meeting'.

Violet climbed under the covers, then irately sat up to remove her shirt and bra before wrestling with her jeans as well. Discarding all items, she sagged in disappointment that Sherlock's night shirt was all the way over on the other side of the room. What did it matter; it no longer smellt like him.

She closed her eyes, the familiar debate battering her mind. If she told Sherlock about Hersch Gleitzman, he'd be on the plane to Australia's east coast immediately. While she'd love that, he'd become frustrated that he couldn't do anything about the sleazy film producer who, by now, resided back in the states. What could he do, anyway? What could anyone do?

But she desperately needed someone to talk to; someone who would share in her outrage.

Timothy Killaney had been her closest confidante, asking her what he could do for her when they spoke about it again during a break in filming.

"I've spent my entire career avoiding the guy," he'd said. "I received advice early on never to work with him."

"I feel as though I need to tell someone in authority," Violet said.

"Like who? He's the CEO of his own company."

"The studio then. Etienne-Lumiere."

"They want a stake in _Glitz and Gomorrah_. They're not going to ruffle his feathers."

"The police."

"Let me play Devil's Advocate," Tim said. "You went to a film producer's hotel suite in the evening, while he was getting ready to leave. He'd already been interrupted in the shower by a phone call. He told you that. That explained his appearance. He jokingly invited you into the shower and you both laughed. Then you leave, saying you look forward to hearing from him about the role. What do you think they'd say to that?"

"That was the only way I could think of to get out of an uncomfortable situation!"

"Violet, you and I know that, but are you hearing how it would sound coming from his mouth?"

Violet brooded for a moment, before Tim added, "Look, I'll see who I can talk to about this, in the meantime, tell someone you trust, who's in a position of power themselves—preferably a female. I'm not going to let this rest either."

Tim had gathered Violet up in his arms in a reassuring hug while he was dressed as Apophis, the evil serpent deity of the Underworld, while Violet was dressed as Satis, the Nile goddess. At which point, Joseph Irkhardt, the bull deity, embraced them both, saying, "Aw, look at you pommies. I thought you were all stiff-upper-lipped and emotionless."

"Fuck off," Tim replied, good-naturedly.

Violet had found a female in which to confide—Julia Clare-Smithson, the second unit director. Although, they had only worked on one block of scenes together, Violet found her easy to talk to. Unfortunately, Julia had laughed at Violet's method of escaping Gleitzman's clutches. She patted Violet's arm affectionately and said, "He sounds positively awful. I'm so glad you handled it yourself," before wandering off.

Violet had felt completely deflated and bewildered at the time. Her encounter with Gleitzman played on her mind repeatedly since that fateful evening. Just how many times had he tried that pathetic come on? How many times had it actually worked? And was she taking this far too seriously? This was Hollywood, after all.

Her head full of confusing thoughts, Violet fell into a deep, exhausted sleep. She had a day off, apart from fight choreography in the late afternoon. The following three days were extra early calls for full costume, hair and makeup. They were shooting a scene on the studio's backlot, which had been transformed into an office block that had been levelled by Apophis's evil forces. It was a gruelling morning, blocking the action and then filming various shots of the same scene.

During a reset, Mandi waved her phone in front of her. Violet glanced around, hoping none of the ADs spotted her personal assistant bringing her a phone call. Violet quickly reached for the phone, her heart stuttering at the thought that it could be Sherlock. Her on set hair stylist, Charlotte, was adjusting the ends of her wig. Violet held the phone half an inch away from her ear, due to the fake brick dust in which she was covered.

"Hello?"

"Violet. Jim Moriarty." Initially stunned to hear his voice, Violet's insides bubbled in expectation. "I haven't caught you at an inopportune moment, have I?"

"I have a couple of minutes," she replied, "before I fight to the death with Tim."

"Ah," Jim said, laughing lightly. "Sounds like fun. Well, I had a rather pleasant afternoon tea with the lovely Stacia Jecks yesterday."

Violet's head buzzed. Stacia Jecks, the recluse?

"And she's warming to the idea of _Canning Town_ on the big screen," Jim went on. "She'll option the audio and visual rights."

"I.. I'm stunned," Violet said, eventually finding her voice. "I didn't think she'd come round."

"Well, that still doesn't guarantee us an in. I'm on the hunt for a script writer, but I had hoped to have been further along with development before I called you about it. In truth, that isn't the reason I phoned." He paused, while Violet waited with baited breath, wondering if she should prompt him. Charlotte tugged on the end of her wig, causing Violet to wince. Jim cleared his throat. "I heard you had a meeting with Hersch Gleitzman," he said.

Violet's breath hitched on the way in. Another tug on her wig, which in turn, pulled her hair at the roots.

"Ow!" Violet exclaimed. Holding up a hand, she snapped, "Just give me a minute!"

Charlotte held up her own hands in surrender and backed away.

"I'm sorry?" Jim asked.

"No, no, not you," Violet said. And she moved into the shadows, further away from the background actors who were milling about, and strived to avoid several technicians resetting props. "Yes," she answered. "I did meet with him. Not that you could call it a meeting."

Across the set, she spied Timothy Killaney. Two wardrobe assistants were adjusting his costume, while he chatted to them, occasionally sharing a laugh with a couple of extras. Violet kept her gaze on him when Jim spoke again.

"Yes, I heard that. I just want you to know you can leave it with me."

"We're going again people!" yelled the first assistant director.

"What do you mean?" Violet asked. Her face felt pinched and hot.

"I'm saying: don't worry about any repercussions as a result of you walking out on Gleitzman."

"Final checks!" the 1st AD called.

Several yards away, Charlotte frantically gestured to Violet, holding up what looked like a curling wand of sorts.

"What sort of… what does that mean?" Violet asked Jim as Mandi materialised in front of her, holding out her hand for the phone.

"Just leave it with me."

Mandi all but yanked the phone from Violet's ear.

"Mandi!"

Her assistant strode away, apologising into the phone.

" _First positions!"_

Violet strode towards the stairs that led to a stack of concrete slabs on which she needed to lie, the hair stylist hot on her heels. Charlotte grabbed at Violet's wig just as the actress made it to the last step, startling Violet in the process.

Whirling around, Violet yelled, "Just leave the fucking wig alone!"

Charlotte froze before scurrying away and there was a momentary silence on set. Violet took her position at the edge of the top slab, lying on her back with her long locks dangling over the precipice. She couldn't stop her heart from racing, but perhaps that was a good thing. Timothy joined her, reclining on his side next to her. She felt Harry, the head hair stylist rearranging the strands of hair below.

"Everything all right?" Tim whispered.

" _Here we go. Pictures up!"_

"No. If she tugs it again like that, I'll fucking deck her."

" _Quiet please!"_

"Did you tell Jim?" Violet asked Timothy. It took him a split second before he understood the question, then he nodded, a glint in his eye.

"Everything will be fine," he whispered back, before his fingers gripped her neck. Violet's eyes began to moisten.

" _Roll sound and camera!"_

With a sly grin, Tim winked at her, before schooling his features into a hardened visage.

" _Sound speed."_

" _Camera speed."_

Violet allowed a mild panic to rise inside her, the one the scene dictated. She easily summoned more tears.

" _Scene 24 Bravo, Take 3."_

" _Marker."_

This time, the emotions were already on the surface and easily accessible. Jim's phone call and his and Timothy's assurances told her one thing.

" _Set."_

" _Background, action!"_

Her life was no longer in her own hands.

" _And… action!"_

#

 _ **November 2013**_

"Yes, here, here, and… here," John said, pulling three photos together, one of Lauren Myrtle, the next of Daisy Firmington and the last: Violet Hunter.

He straightened up, puffing out his chest.

"Mm," mused Sherlock, unconvinced. "I still don't see why you've brought Violet into the equation." He dragged over a photo of Chenoa Burton and placed it between Daisy and Violet. Meanwhile, his phoned bleeped a single tone.

"Nope," said John. "Not even close. Violet looks like Lauren and Daisy in this pose. Especially when she was blonde. Chenoa doesn't even come into the equation."

"Yes, but Violet wasn't the one assaulted in the same manner as Lauren Myrtle."

"What's going on?" demanded Mrs Hudson as she entered her kitchen. "What are all these photos doing on my kitchen table?"

"We're working, Mrs H," John replied. "Away from the… you know." He pointed a finger towards the ceiling.

Sherlock's phone beeped again and he tapped the table thoughtfully.

"You're going to have to go," John said. "That's the… fourth message?"

Sherlock heaved out a breath in frustration.

"Yes. Yes." He waved at the contents of the table. "I don't know where Mary's headed with this theory of hers. She needs another brainwave. One that doesn't involve my girlfriend."

His phone chirruped one more time.

"Oh, for fuck's sake."

"Sherlock!" called his landlady. "Language!"

"Okay, I'm going."

He strode towards the passageway, leaving John to gather up the photos.

"I hear Munich's lovely at this time of year," John remarked, a half smile on his face.

"Sherlock," lamented Mrs Hudson, since the detective had paused in the doorway. "How much longer do we have to put up with this?" As John had done, she pointed a finger towards the ceiling.

"You'll have to ask my brother," Sherlock replied. "I'm sure this is the last one."

"You said that after Prague," John remarked.

"Munich is the big one. And after that, our lives will go back to normal."

"Certainly hope so," said John. "Isn't Violet due back soon?"

"Mm," Sherlock agreed. "And with that, I bid you _Auf Wiedersehen!_ "

#

"And that's a wrap!" called Max Burnott, the director. Cast and crew clapped. "We'll see you all in Brisbane!"

Violet hugged Ethan, hi-fived Scott, their stunt coordinator, then received a pat on the back from Max. Walking across the lot, listening to Mandi and Charlotte chattering, she tugged at her neckline, the lycra sticking to her skin. The sooner she undressed and showered, the better.

They called in to the hair and makeup trailer, where Charlotte began the delicate operation of removing Violet's wig. As she did so, Mandi outlined the logistics she'd received from the studio publicist for Violet's visit to the Gold Coast Children's Hospital along with Joe and Tim the next morning.

Once finished, Violet made a beeline for her trailer to be peeled out of her costume by Lucy from wardrobe. At last, the water from the shower nozzle pelted her head, and she lifted her face to the spray. Tension melted away. Another milestone complete, and now production was moving to Brisbane to film scenes around the city centre.

"One week to go," Sherlock had said, his smiled stretched wide, enough to make her insides flutter with eager anticipation. The fact that he was counting down the days as well filled her with an unquantifiable thrill.

They'd finally skyped that morning—well, morning on the Gold Coast, while Sherlock flicked up his collar against the rapidly chilling night time air in London.

"Why are you smoking on the rooftop at Bart's?" Violet had asked him, flexing her toes while she still lay under the covers.

"Because I'm not allowed to smoke inside."

She gave him a resigned smile. Still half asleep, she was only minutes away from having to rise, shower and dress before transport would pick her up for her last 5am call at the studio to undergo the long process of attaching her wig.

"I'm sorry we haven't spoken much this last month," he said.

"It's not just you," Violet quickly interjected. "I've had some pretty long days and nights, as well." Not to mention she hadn't wanted him to see her attempting to process her encounter with Hersch Gleitzman. There was that.

"One case in particular, it's…" He looked away, his hair picking up a slight breeze as he sat leaning against a low wall. "It's been a fucking nightmare, really. But I'll tell you all about it when you return."

Violet's heart had skipped a beat. She'd love to curl up beside him as he recounted the cases he'd worked on while she'd been away. And how would it feel to wake up beside Sherlock every morning!

"It will be better once I'm back," she said, hauling herself to a sitting position against the headboard. "You can use me as your skull, like you used to. And at least I'll get to come home each night after shooting. I really miss working on cases with you."

"You do?"

He sounded surprised again.

"Perhaps after _Improbity_ …" Violet began.

"But you have that one in New York after that."

"I'm not sure what's happening with _Arthur Avenue._ They're stalling, I think. I don't suppose you could find out? I know it's not your area of expertise, but—"

"I know how to gather information."

"Yes." Violet's mind scrambled to calculate the risk… of asking him… if it was plausible to get him to… "And there's another one, while you're at it," she said. "A film called _Glitz and Gomorrah_."

"Sounds… intriguing."

"Yes, well, I've heard they've already cast it, but that hasn't been confirmed anywhere official. A man called… um… Hersch Gleitzman, he's the Executive Producer… well, h-he suggested I might be perfect for the lead role. And I haven't heard anything for a while. I'm definitely interested. I just don't want to get my hopes up."

"Okay. Anything else?"

Sherlock quirked a brow, a smile playing on his lips. Well, if he was going to give the impression of being interested, she may as well continue.

" _Canning Town_ ," she said.

"That's the novel you carry around with you all the time."

"Yes! And Stacia Jecks—she's the author—she's never been willing to sign away the film rights, but I heard a whisper that she's talking to someone, so…"

"You want to know if there's any truth to the rumour."

"Yes, please. Are you writing any of this down?"

"Do you think I need to? _Arthur Avenue, Glitz and Gomorrah_ , and _Canning Town_. Filed away." He tapped at his temple. "Sounds like you'll be busy for the whole of next year."

"I may not get to have anything to do with the last two. But I will get a break around Christmas, partway through filming _Improbity_."

"Mm."

Sherlock took another drag on his cigarette, leaving Violet to ponder what that would mean for them.

"What are we doing for Christmas?" she asked.

"We?" Sherlock asked, deep furrows appearing in his brow. "I mean… I haven't thought about it."

Violet tried not to take his initial reaction to heart.

"Last year I went to Bolton and spent it with Simon," she said. "My friends and I were supposed to do something—an orphans' Christmas, we said—but…"

"What about your dad?"

"What about him? Don't forget he doesn't like spending time with me, if he can help it, and he never celebrates Christmas anyway. I wouldn't be surprised if he escaped to India this year. What about you? You have a family thing, don't you?"

She could see Sherlock's weary sigh from across the globe before he scratched at one eyebrow.

"Yes," he replied.

"So, maybe, we can… or I can…" She didn't want to have to ask him—to invite herself to his family's Christmas do. "Is there something we can do together?" she finally asked.

Sherlock leant his head back against the wall.

"Well… I don't suppose you…" he began. "No, stupid idea. Forget that."

"You don't suppose what?" Violet asked, holding her breath.

"You'd like to spend Christmas at my… my parents'? That's… with my parents. And me. And Mycroft."

"Oh, Sherlock!"

"Sometimes, there's an extra relative or two. Or three. Don't know the exact nature of their plans for this year."

"It sounds wonderful!"

"It does? So, is that a yes?"

He looked worried, but Violet was quite mindful of appearing too keen.

"Of course," she said. "I'm looking forward to it. We can talk about logistics when I get back."

"Logistics?"

"When I get back, yes."

Violet used every last ounce of self-control not to quiz Sherlock about his parents and how the family celebrated Christmas. She could just imagine Sherlock shutting down, declaring it too hard, then taking back his invitation and the two of them spending Christmas alone in Baker Street. Not that that would be so bad, but this was an opportunity to _finally_ meet Sherlock's mum and dad!

A ringing phone caught Sherlock's attention, and he looked off to the side, absorbed in something.

"Was that another phone?" Violet asked.

"I've been summoned."

The screen jolted as Sherlock rose to his feet.

"Do you have two phones?"

"Look, I'll tell you all about it when y—"

"—when I get back. Yes. Fine."

Sherlock's smile stretched wide.

"One week to go," he said, his eyes twinkling.

They bid each other goodbye, the conversation giving Violet a buzz that had lasted the entire day.

She left the shower and began drying herself. Frantic knocking on the bathroom door startled her.

"Yes?" she asked.

"You've got a meeting," Mandi called through the door.

"Who with?"

"That.. that Jim Moriarty guy."

Violet's insides twisted.

"He's back in Australia?"

"I don't know. Did he leave? One of the P.A.s from the office stopped by. He said to go whenever you were ready. He's using Lynda's office."

Violet finished towel-drying her hair, then wrapped her bathtowel around her. Sticking her head out the door, she asked, "Mandi, can you please lay out my—"

Mandi gestured towards the day bed, upon which Violet's outfit lay.

"I don't know what I'd do without you," she said to her P.A.

"I know."

Violet combed through her hair, wondering what Jim could want, and why he was back in Australia when he originally thought it unlikely. Hopefully, he had good news about _Canning Town_. Violet's heart thumped in anticipation. Today was turning out to be a wonderful day, indeed.

#

 _ **Author's Note:**_

 _I've slightly condensed the actions on a large film set (the rolling call, etc.) for the sake of narrative brevity, but I'm sure you get the picture. And the "snake in the ventilation shaft" case is a nod to ACD's_ The Speckled Band.


	14. A Lie That's Preferable to the Truth

**Chapter 14 - A Lie That's Preferable to the Truth**

"Have a seat, my dear."

Jim motioned Violet over to a couple of armchairs in front of Lynda's desk. She took a seat, her heart-rate a dull thud. This could be good news or bad. She found Jim Moriarty hard to read.

Perching on an arm of the chair opposite, Jim said, "I have loved this—this little game of ours. Playing Hollywood executive, playing film producer. Did you like me winning over Stacia Jecks? Getting the ball rolling on _Canning Town_?"

Violet clasped her hands together in her lap, her brow furrowed.

"I'm… sorry?" she asked.

But Jim bowed his head and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I did try to warn him," he said in slight exasperation before looking up once more. "I sent my messenger along, only he got distracted during delivery, and the message wasn't relayed with enough… gravitas."

Wait. Warn him? Who?

"Are you talking about Hersch Gleitzman?" Violet asked tentatively, her throat tightening.

"Huh?"

"W-warn… who?"

"Oh," Jim said. "You're still existing in our little fairy tale. Hersch Gleitzman doesn't even rate in the real world. But he was getting in my way. _Our_ way. No wonder he got stabbed in an alleyway in Queens. A simple mugging gone wrong, you see. Oh! No, wait." A fierce heat began to spread across Violet's cheeks with these words as Jim looked at his watch. "That hasn't happened yet," he continued, frowning. Looking up at Violet, he said, "Sorry. I've rather spoilt the ending there. But that ordinary, unimaginative insect. Did he really think he could pull one over on the woman who spat in Sebastian Moran's face?"

Something snapped inside Violet, like one of Sherlock's violin strings wound too tight.

"Jacob," Jim went on. "Jacob Venucci. I gave Jakey-boy the message to relay via you, but he was distracted by his feelings." He wrinkled his nose a little. "Oh well," he said, shrugging. "Just let me give you the message myself. Tell Sherlock to back off."

The blood had drained from Violet's face. She knew these words in a completely different context. Sebastian Moran. Jake. Sherlock. Back off? The air in the room crackled with static.

Her incompatible worlds were colliding.

"But…"

"I can see you're utterly confused. My apologies. I keep forgetting how ordinary minds work. But I'm surprised Sherlock's never mentioned me. He must have. There's no way he'd believe someone like Sebastian Moran had the expertise to evade arrest all these years. Well, except for this year. Nice sleuthing there. And I must admit I'd grown rather bored of Seb's tantrums. But surely he's said something—Sherlock. I like to think of myself as a consultant. Like him! Consulting Criminal. Or Criminal Mastermind of the Underworld. You've gotta admit that's sexier."

He spoke like Sherlock—that casual arrogance that everyone should understand the subject matter. But how did he know so much about Sherlock? And the case?

Somewhere a distant memory of Sherlock's assertion when commencing the Sebastian Moran case came to the forefront her mind.

 _I suspect a more intelligent figure is pulling the strings._

But how could that be him? Jim Moriarty? He worked in the entertainment industry, for goodness sake.

"I… I don't know what you're talking about," Violet said, her mind scrambling. "H-how can you be…"

"How can I be what?" Furrows appeared in his brow. He sounded a little impatient now. Rising to his feet, he added, "Both the Chief Operating Officer of Etienne-Lumiere _and_ the Criminal Mastermind of the Underworld?"

All the air seemed to have whooshed out of Violet's lungs as she watched Jim tread the carpet towards Lynda's desk.

"You work for the studio," she said without any real conviction in her tone.

"Honey, I _am_ the studio," Jim replied, pivotting on the rug and stretching his arms out wide. He seemed kind of comical and outrageously mad. A bit like Timothy Killaney's villain in _Rise of the Five_. "I'm _every_ studio," he added, puffing up slightly. "How do you think you got where you are today? I know just the right buttons to push on just the right people."

Violet felt as if the room was dimming at the edges—a vignette, leaving Jim at its focus.

" _Regency Road_ ," Jim went on, leaning against the desk and folding his arms across his chest. "I got you that role. Didn't turn out quite like I wanted it to, but still. It gave you a start." A tiny sliver of ice found its way into Violet's heart. "And _Catherine Hilderness,_ " he continued _._ "Sir Henry Masters really didn't want you. It took me three attempts to convince him otherwise. Nice of you to pester the casting director, but that ain't what got you the gig, my dear. I thought old Sir Henry was going to have a heart attack by the end there. What was it like working with him? He must've strived hard to hide his loathing of you."

Violet's jaw slackened. She couldn't believe what she was hearing. It sounded like nonsense, but… at the same time, it all clicked—her good fortune regarding roles this year. _Not_ due to her talent or determination. And Sir Henry Masters, especially. She always felt uncomfortable in his presence.

"And here you are on _Rise of the Five,_ " Jim continued _. "_ It's happened pretty fast for you, hasn't it? So, what else have I got lined up? _Improbity_? Nice little scandalous sex romp. Wonder what Sherlock's gonna think of that one. But… _Arthur Avenue._ That wasn't my doing. I really can't see it working out. I would never have grouped you with that bunch of old has-beens. Well…" He glanced around the office with a sigh. "This has been interesting, but back to the point of our little meeting. Tell Sherlock to back off."

This again.

Despite the air pressing in on her and the topsy-turvy revelation of her career successes, Violet grasped onto something tangible—the memory of the last time these words were spoken to her by Jake.

"No," she said, rising from the armchair.

"What?"

Her voice trembled, but she managed to repeat herself. "I said, 'No'. I'm not doing it. I told Jake, and I'm telling you: tell Sherlock yourself. You're not using me as a messenger for your stupid power plays."

"Oh," Jim said, laughing lightly. "Good! I didn't think Sherlock would put up with you all this time if you didn't have a backbone."

"Why are you afraid of him?" Violet ventured.

"Afraid of him? No, no. I was once distracted by him. Now he's just annoying. I always thought he was like me—fiercely chasing that little bit of excitement to keep him from being bored. To keep life from flatlining. But then he became ordinary. Dating? Hooking up with an actress? Now that blew me away, I must admit. My favourite kinds of people. Actors."

His favourite people? Actors?

"Is that why you're helping me?"

Jim's eyes glinted with humour and he touched the tip of his tongue to his top lip before he spoke again.

"Funny concept, the entertainment industry. Just look at the history of the world. People have always been like this. It's a cultural thing. Admire those who are successful, talented, and unobtainable. Worship them. Actors are revered as gods. And if I'm the one to create the gods then what does that make me? It's a little hobby of mine. On the side. But as I've told you, I have interests the world over. Where do you come in? I wanted to see what—or who—had made Sherlock so ordinary. And it was you! Violet Hunter, at the infancy of her career. I could've let you flounder around for years working as Sherlock Holmes's personal assistant, with the odd yoghurt ad on TV thrown in so you could still call yourself an actor. But now you're going places and I'm the tour guide. But are you up for the ride? The lovely Daisy wasn't. She left early."

"Daisy?" Violet repeated, the only name her mind could catch onto while it was buried in an avalanche of thoughts.

"Sherlock is meddling," Jim went on while Violet was still trying to determine if Jim meant Daisy _Firmington_. All other thoughts relating to Jim's pivotal role in her career lay in a pile at her feet. "Prague," he said. "Munich. They were important to me, so I need you, Violet Hunter, to give Sherlock my message. It has to be you. You're his weakness."

Jim turned from her. From across the desk, he pulled a laptop towards him.

"If you're not willing to play," he said, "then let me give you an extra incentive. It's your emotions I need to appeal to. You'll make Sherlock listen to you."

He pressed a key on the laptop bringing the computer to life, drawing Violet's gaze. The screen was split into three, the videos playing in each looping back to the beginning after a few seconds.

Violet easily identified the subjects: Emily, her father, and Mandi.

"I really don't know what her appeal is," Jim said, pointing to Emily, her old friend from Manchester, as Violet approached the desk. "Jake said you were quite fond of her."

Emily stood by a lamppost, smoking, the point-of-view from inside a car that was pulling up alongside. The young woman leant into the open window. There was no audio, but it was obvious what was going on here. Violet knew what Em had to do to pay to feed her heroin addiction.

In the middle of the screen, the camera's perspective showed her dad opening the door to his flat, a half-smile on his face as he stepped back to allow the person who was filming him to enter. In the entranceway of the flat at the Brassworks that Violet knew only too well, the cameraperson stopped in front of the hall mirror and fluffed out her hair. It was Cherry, the woman Sherlock and Violet had encountered on the stairwell one night—the woman both she and Sherlock had deduced was a hired escort. She wasn't holding anything, so Violet could only conclude the elaborate brooch she wore on her dress contained a hidden camera.

The final video appeared to be CCTV footage of Mandi exiting a nightclub via an alleyway with an unrecognisable man. He suddenly pivots her against the alley wall and they embrace, lips locked in a passionate kiss.

"Kinda got a common theme going on here," Jim said. "It was unintentional, believe me."

"Why are you doing this?" Violet asked, her voice shredding itself at the edges.

"The danger of working on the streets, or having clandestine liaisons with all manner of people, is that unfortunate things can happen. Although, I think it's more likely your friend Emily here will die from a heroin overdose more so than an attack from a random punter. But that's just my opinion. You might have your own insight."

Violet said nothing, both mesmerised and horrified by the images in front of her.

"And there we have it," Jim said. "The little message you're to deliver to Sherlock is: back off, or three of the people you care about will die. One at a time."

Jim closed the lid of the laptop with a snap, jolting Violet back to the here and now.

"Just one more challenge, my dear. One more consideration. You should know that some people say my name with a certain kind of… awe. It's whispered in corners, both feared and revered. In other quarters, no one dares speak my name out loud. And that's where you live now, Violet Hunter. In that quarter. Your challenge is to deliver my warning to Sherlock Holmes without giving away my identity. I have to be allowed to continue here. You can't tell him when and where and how I gave you this message."

"I can't lie to Sherlock. He'll know."

"You and I both know that isn't true. You've lied to Sherlock before and gotten away with it. He's blinded by his trust in you. And besides, you're an actress with some talent. Do you think your climb to the top would be as convincing to the rest of the world if you were a hack?"

"He'll ask me questions."

"And you won't answer them. It's that simple. If I get wind of… if I even hear a _whisper_ that I'm being investigated, then you may as well plunge in the knife yourself… or the syringe… or… whatever."

Jim picked up the laptop and patted it affectionately.

"Well, I'd better be off," he said to Violet's stunned silence. "And so had you. You've got to pack for Brisbane, and don't forget that all important phone call you have to make to your boyfriend."

Jim disappeared through the office door, and in his wake the air pressure in the room lessened, allowing Violet to breathe once more.

#

"Ma'am?"

Violet jolted awake and blinked, bleary-eyed, at the flight attendant.

"Another Muscat… thanks," she said automatically, her voice scratchy from sleep.

"Ah… was it tea or coffee?" the flight attendant asked.

 _Oh, fuck it. Is it breakfast time already?_ Violet thought, her mind a thick soup.

"Tea. Please. Earl Grey."

The actress straightened up fully and brushed her hair from her face as the tea was poured and the tea cup placed on the table beside her chair. She had dozed off again after waking and staggering to use the facilities. On the way she had asked the delightful Philippa, the flight attendant, to remove her bedding now that she was awake and could she please have something to drink. When she returned, she curled up into her now upright seat and promptly fell back asleep. Dear God, she was a mess.

Violet ran her fingers through her hair again, then took a gulp of tea. Its soothing effect had her leaning heavily back into her seat, her eyes fluttering to a close, her breath a languid exhale.

When would they serve her alcohol again? Was it too tacky to ask? Not that it was entirely her fault. Philippa had given her a Laurent-Perrier Grand Siècle after boarding and well, it was a slippery slope after that. There was the Esk Valley Pinot Noir from New Zealand during dinner, and in keeping with the antipodean theme, she chose the Rutherglen Muscat from Australia, a dessert wine. It went smoothly with the cheese board (the double brie was from Somerset!), her glass continually topped up before it ran dry. Now that definitely wasn't her fault.

Still, all that alcohol served to smooth the edges and take her mind off her non-existent talent.

 _You're the most talented actress I know._

Thank you, Sherlock. You don't really know many actresses, do you?

 _Point taken._

Why didn't you answer your fucking phone? I wouldn't be on this neverending flight if you had.

 _You know why. I'm on a tricky case and therefore non-con—_

Non-contactable. I know.

Arsehole.

Prior to this assumption, she'd phoned his number repeatedly in a blind panic the evening after she'd met with Jim. She'd snapped at Mandi for getting in a fluster herself because Violet _wasn't telling her anything_. But there'd been no other solution. _People would die_ if she didn't give Sherlock the message to stop what he was doing. And it would be her fault. So, she had to return to London if she couldn't get through to him.

Violet chose the pita bread with halloumi cheese and mediterranean vegetables for breakfast. Something to soak up the wine. She only ate the bread anyway. The rest of her flight went along the same lines as the start.

Minimum food. Low carbs, remember! Maximum red. The Merlot, a Château Dassault, went well with lunch, whatever that was. _Superb!_ she had remarked to Philippa, not that Violet could really tell the difference between the Merlot and the Muscat and the Pinot Noir. Sherlock always knew the subtle differences between the various red wines he chose for them. He would sniff them first and tell her about their fruit notes. Oh, Sherlock!

She frequently scrolled through the selection of movies—never watching more than five minutes at a time—and shuddered at the thought of who was controlled by Jim. Or Gleitzman. _Had been_ controlled by Gleitzman.

She shivered whenever she thought of the fatal attack on Hersch Gleitzman. She'd seen the headlines when she was in transit in Singapore.

 _I've rather spoilt the ending there_ , Jim had said.

Yes, you did, Jim. Remind me never to watch a film with you.

Soon enough, the old A380 lurched towards Heathrow and Violet was off tap.

She remembered to put one foot in front of the other when disembarking the plane. Go with the flow. Follow the herd. Thank God for all those signs and travelators. She paused on one of the travelators to draw on her coat.

No luggage to collect, just the backpack she had taken on board as hand luggage. She was only going to be here for… what was it? Ten hours? Twelve? Give Sherlock his message, spend the night in Baker Street, then repeat the journey in reverse tomorrow.

Oh my God. What am I doing? She could feel a hysterical kind of laughter bubbling up inside her.

Violet spied her driver, Maurice, holding a sign with the name "Lettie" on it—her childhood name and one that Emily had always called her. Mandi had latched onto it. What an efficient P.A.—making sure nobody knew she was arriving.

Saving lives!

That's it! She remembered. That's why she was doing this. To save their lives. Emily. Her dad. Mandi.

"Evening, Ms Hunter," Maurice said, relieving Violet of her hefty backpack and leaving her with just her handbag to carry. "Welcome home."

"Thank you."

One foot in front of the other. Bow head. Eyes downcast. Readjust sunglasses.

Somebody off to the left was snapping a photograph of her.

She fell asleep on the journey from Heathrow to the City of Westminster, sunglasses still in place, and woke with a jolt when the limo braked suddenly. Peering through the rain-slashed window, she could just make out Hammersmith Station.

Saw something at the Lyric Theatre, once, just around the corner.

When I had designs on becoming an actor.

Nearly home.

The lights of the city were red and white blobs through the window. Autumn rain.

Violet's insides fluttered at the thought of seeing Sherlock again. It would be a relief to unburden herself, to have him say, "What a moron. I already know who he is, Violet, and he's under arrest as we speak!"

Yes!

No. That would be the most unlikely outcome. But he would at least assure her he was off the case—the one that would get her loved ones killed—and he would accompany her back to Australia! Wonderful!

No!

He shouldn't come back with her. Jim wouldn't be there, anyway, and Sherlock would be bored out of his mind with nothing to solve because Violet wouldn't tell him anything. _Couldn't_ tell him anything.

The limo pulled up alongside the kerb outside 221, its tyres splashing in the gutter. Violet stepped out onto the footpath, gazing up at the orange glow emitted through the upstairs flat windows. Rain dashed her face, plastering her hair to her head.

"Miss!"

Sherlock would be sitting by the fire, reading one of his serial killer biographies.

"You shoulda waited!" Maurice said, holding an umbrella over her head.

If he's home, then why didn't he ring me?

"Here," the driver insisted, holding the handle out for her to take. "I'll just get your luggage."

Violet took the umbrella without much thought. Walking to the door took more effort than she realised it would. She swayed a little, then stood there, staring at the brass knocker, mesmerised about being back in London, back in Baker Street, before remembering she had the key. She lived here.

"Here, I'll hold that," Maurice said, coming up beside her and reaching for the umbrella.

His presence spurred Violet into action. She rummaged inside her handbag for the housekey, plucked it out, then slid it into the lock. A jiggle and a twist, that's it!

After pushing the door open a little, she thanked Maurice, who handed her the backpack he'd retrieved from the boot, and negotiated with him for a return pickup the next morning at 9am.

Shivering, she crossed the threshold. She carefully closed the external door behind her, instead of letting it fall shut. It was very late, after all, and she had so many strikes against her name already, where the landlady was concerned.

Violet shed her jacket, unzipped her boots, and left them, along with her backpack, in a wet pile at the bottom of the stairwell. She tip-toed up, clutching the banister. The narrow staircase did sway a little. Or was that the walls?

She smoothed her damp hair away from her face, her heart thumping in anticipation. It would all be over soon. Everything will be okay.

 _No, it won't_ , the Sherlock in her imagination retorted. _Because you can't tell me about Jim Moriarty and the hold he has on your career._

Apart from that.

Pausing on the landing half-way up, Violet could hear the faint sound of violins and other stringed instruments. Sherlock was playing something from his collection again? The last time she heard anything like that, it was at full volume and he was drinking whiskey and smoking.

And believing that Violet was a traitorous harlot.

Something very odd here.

Cautiously, Violet ascended to the top. The door to the living room stood ajar. Placing one stockinged foot over the threshold, she gently pushed the door inwards a little, before peering behind it.

Fire crackled and danced in the fireplace, partly obscured, though, by a silhouetted figure kneeling on the floor in front of Sherlock's chair. It only took a split second for Violet's eyes to refocus on the occupants.

Sherlock sat in his armchair, leaning forward, just about to kiss the woman at his feet, her long, wavy tresses cascading over the blue satin dressing gown she was wearing. Sherlock's dressing gown? She, though, had become distracted by Violet's entrance.

Violet's heart iced over.

A faint smile plucked at the woman's lips. Sherlock blinked and straightened up, a mild panic flitting across his features as he, too, spied Violet frozen by the doorway.

"Cousin Lettie," the woman remarked.

#

 _ **Author's Note:**_

 _Please consider reviewing even if you've never given feedback before. I'd love to know if there's still interest for this fan fic. At the moment, I'm feeling completely discouraged from updating, which is a shame, because I really love this story. Thank you!_


	15. We're in a Lot of Trouble

**Chapter 15 - We're in a Lot of Trouble**

Sherlock opened his mouth, but no words came out, muted by an inability to reconcile the vision of the young woman whose footfalls thundered down the stairwell with the idea that his girlfriend was supposed to be ten thousand miles away, in Australia.

He should've been quicker, he thought as he launched himself out of his armchair. Irene Adler emitted a seductive chuckle as he flew out the door. He could've punched her.

As Sherlock dashed downstairs only one question battered his mind—what had transpired in Australia that necessitated Violet travelling all the way back to London, with one week of filming left in Brisbane? He'd received her message, _Sherlock, ring me, it's urgent!_ , but he hadn't had the opportunity (or privacy!) to phone her back. And perhaps, to his error, he thought Violet was overdramatising something that was probably quite trivial.

He rounded the corner to see her at the foot of the staircase retrieving a pair of boots and her jacket. A backpack stood nearby. All items, like Violet herself, were rain-spattered.

"Violet!"

He reached the bottom in no time, as Violet hauled her possessions away from the last step.

"What happened?" he insisted. "Why are you here?"

She backed away from him, giving herself room to shove a stockinged foot into one of her boots.

"Don't… you… dare."

She could hardly speak, as if her words had to carefully pick themselves around the barriers she'd put in place to control her rage.

Sherlock cautiously approached. She seemed so much smaller now, here in real life, not an image on his phone's screen, or a figment of his (sometimes saucy) imagination. Her hair was cut a lot shorter than it used to be; it feathered her face, giving her a delicate elfin look. He… liked it. Obviously, he hadn't seen it properly the last time they'd skyped.

"I… was counting… on you," she said as she struggled into the second boot using the wall as support.

"Clearly something's happened," he began. Her single backpack and no other luggage indicated she'd left Australia only temporarily. She hadn't been fired from set then.

"You don't get to do this!" she suddenly yelled, stomping her boot on the lino. Whether out of emphasis or the necessity to wedge her foot into it further, Sherlock couldn't immediately determine. "That!" she snapped, pointing upwards, "That, _up there_ , is _what happened_!"

"Oh," Sherlock said casually, waving a flippant hand. "That was noth—"

 _Whack!_

His left cheek stung and his ear began to ring. Didn't see that coming.

"You don't get to _fuck someone else_ and say it was _nothing_!" Violet yelled, her eyes blazing. "It's _everything_ to me!" She choked out those last words, tears pooling and clotting her lashes.

Sherlock's stomach dropped several inches as he gently rubbed his cheek. The spinning top of his thoughts whirred and wobbled until it came to rest at an awkward angle. She really thinks… Did she assume I…

He thought she was only a bit angry, having stormed out… Easily managed. But this…

"There's a simple explanation for what you saw," Sherlock began, keeping his voice low and calm, "Or what you _think_ you saw, but—"

"What's going on?" Mrs Hudson called, standing at the end of the passageway in her sleepwear.

But Violet's gaze of hatred didn't waver from Sherlock.

"Does she wear your dressing gown," she said through gritted teeth, "before or after you fuck her!"

"Oh," Mrs Hudson said on an exhale, while Sherlock drew in a steadying breath. He had his work cut out for him tonight.

"If you had observed instead of simply staring in bewilder—"

"Stop it," Violet said, her voice strangled. "Don't b-belittle me with your f-fucking clever deductions."

"Hold on a minute." Her slow blinking. Her slurred words. "Have you been drinking?"

"Oh… God!" Violet exclaimed with a humourless laugh. She stooped to retrieve her coat from the floor.

"So you've been drinking on the flight," Sherlock deduced. "Something upset you, prompting you to leave Austra—."

" _You've_ upset me _, you stupid prick!_ "

"Before _now_! Before _this_!" Sherlock yelled back.

" _Stop trying to change the subject!"_

While their heated gazes remained locked on one another, Mrs Hudson piped up, "Could someone please tell me what's going on?"

Sherlock waited for Violet's explanation as to why she was here.

"I caught Sherlock upstairs with some woman," Violet explained, her voice a deadly calm.

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Sherlock said as Mrs Hudson covered her mouth in alarm.

"They were holding hands and he was just about to kiss her," Violet went on.

"For fuck's sake, Violet. You know me. You know I wouldn't do—"

"I know what I saw! And I know what you were like before you met me. Those Thursday night pickups. Is Saturday night your thing now?"

Sherlock couldn't help it. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling as he heaved out a sigh.

"I was gone for two months," she choked, as she began pulling on her coat. "And that's all it took."

Wait! Was she that upset, she was just going to leave without hearing his explanation? Sherlock had set the foundation of their conversation on the basis that he was completely innocent, yet Violet hung erroneously from the rafters of wild misinformation. He had to talk her down somehow.

"Violet, listen," he said, reaching for her.

She shrugged out of his hold, yelling, "Don't fucking touch me!"

Violet grabbed her backpack, heaving it over one shoulder as she lurched towards the entrance. Was her backpack putting her off balance, or was she drunker than Sherlock initially detected?

"Violet."

"I can't stand the sight of you."

It sounded like a desperate bid for freedom. As she reached the front door, Sherlock grabbed her arm, pulling her back.

"Have the courtesy of—"

A loud thwack, accompanied by a sharp pain in his nose, silenced him. In a blur of limbs, the air was knocked out of him, one leg was suddenly kicked out from underneath him and he landed with a thud on the floor, jolting his head against the frame of the internal door.

In a daze and struggling to breathe, he could just make out Violet standing above him.

"I've lost _everything_ now!" she raged. "Don't you dare put me in the headlines as well by following me out into the street like some fucking ITV drama!"

The world went fuzzy on the edges as the door clicked shut.

"Oh, dear," he heard his landlady say as her footsteps approached him. "That wasn't very good, was it?"

Leaning forward from his crumpled position, he held his nose with one hand and reached behind to rub the back of his throbbing head.

"N-no," he said through his sinuses. "That was… that was… brilliant."

The pain in his chest intensified as he drew in air. He had no idea his girlfriend was capable of such a feat. Such fluid dexterity. And all heavily under the influence. Time well spent in Australia, then.

"I don't mean that," Mrs Hudson went on. "I mean…" She pointed to the ceiling, the way she and John often did when they didn't want to say Irene Adler's name out loud.

"Oh, that. Nothing happened." Sherlock withdrew his hand from his nose and inspected his fingers for blood. A smattering. "A simple misunderstanding," he went on. "Violet will calm down once she's had five minutes alone in a cab. What's more important is why my girlfriend is in London one week early."

"I'm not sure you actually have a girlfriend at the moment, dear. I'll get something for your… injuries."

Sherlock struggled to stand up.

"No," he said in a sort of half-exhale, half-pained moan. "Bring me your mobile. I need to make a call."

"What's wrong with your phone?"

"Upstairs. Don't want to face _her_ just now."

Mrs Hudson disappeared into her flat while Sherlock hobbled over to the stairwell and gingerly lowered himself onto the bottom step, still rubbing his head. He winced at the sharp stabbing pain in his abdomen. Bruised ribs, no doubt. Well done, Violet.

"Ring Mycroft," he said, when his landlady returned.

"I don't have your brother's number."

"Everyone around me has my brother's number. He pays you all to spy on me."

"I've never received a single penny. Do other people get paid?"

"Just ring it."

Sherlock was going to end this farce once and for all.

#

Violet's head throbbed and now her chest ached as well. It all ached. Her world had shattered and lay in shards all around her. Closing her eyes, she leaned back in the seat of the cab. The rhythm of the windscreen wipers urged her heart to beat faster, which in turn, caused her breath to come in shallow bursts.

Oh, God.

I need…

Violet grabbed her backpack, which sat between her legs, and rummaged through it. Somewhere in here…

Where is it?

I know I put it in…

The vodka. Thank God. The mini bar bottle she'd surreptitiously slipped into her handbag back in her hotel room on the Gold Coast. In two quick swigs, it lay empty in her palm. Closing her eyes once more, she knew she'd fully relax the moment the alcohol hit her system. She'd book into a hotel near Heathrow, get a good night's sleep, then take the flight back to Brisbane, via Sydney or Melbourne… whatever the fuck Mandi had organised. Another day of flying!

Thank Christ. She could feel the vodka warming her insides now, quicker than she thought it would, but then again, she hadn't really eaten anything substantial since lunchtime, and even then…

Fucking arsehole.

 _Fucking arsehole!_

She came all this way for nothing. What had she expected of him? She'd wanted to be relieved of this burden once she delivered Jim's stupid message. She couldn't even summon up her imaginary Sherlock to reply with comforting words.

Fucking arsehole.

In a quick intake of breath, Violet's eyes snapped open. She hadn't delivered Jim's message! Her heart jolted. The panic reclaimed its hold. She hadn't told Sherlock! He wouldn't know that he had to stop!

Oh, God!

"Stop the cab!"

"Wha…? I can't 'ere, miss," the cabbie replied.

"Just… just… just turn around. When you can. Take the next left… and then…"

Fuck!

There was no way she could return to Baker Street. To him.

And her.

"Where to, miss?"

"Um… I'm thinking… hang on."

Shit.

She couldn't speak to that lying, cheating prick again. How had he made it all about her? She _caught him_! But he was barely trying to wriggle out of it, the arrogant sod. What had he said?

 _If you had observed instead of simply staring…_

Observed what?

 _Think, Violet. What did you see? What did you hear?_

Shut up. I'm not talking to you.

I saw a woman, kneeling at your feet. Was she going to give you head? You know, I kneeled in that exact same place, you fucking prick. You love it!

 _Think, Violet! What did she say?_

What did she say? I don't fucking care!

 _Cousin Lettie._

What? Why? I don't have any cousins. How did she know I was called Lettie?

Well, there were… cousins.

All those years ago… when I thought… believed… Charles Adler was my father. And his brother Eddie, with his three daughters. So, that means… the Adlers.

Was that…?

 _Irene Adler._

That was Irene Adler? The dominatrix for hire?

"Oh, my God!"

"Sorry, miss?"

"Nothing. Just… just… take the next left."

Sherlock hired a prostitute while I was away. And not just any prostitute. Irene Adler, the dominatrix.

"Fucking hell."

"Miss?"

"Just keep driving. Please. I'm looking for an address."

Fuck you, Sherlock Holmes. So he didn't go out and pick up on a Saturday night. He just hired someone. And did he really think that was okay? That fucking prostitutes didn't constitute cheating?

 _But you have to give me a message._

Shut up!

Oh, God. He's not going to know unless I tell him…

Or… someone else can tell him…

Prompted by an idea, Violet quickly retrieved her phone from her handbag and swiftly dialled John Watson's number.

"Hey, Violet! This is a surp—"

"John! I need to tell you something. Are you at home?"

"Uh… yeah, yeah. What's up?"

"I'm on my way. I'll be there soon."

"Wait… Are you coming 'round here? Are you back in the UK?"

"Yes. I just arrived and I need to tell you something. A message to give to Sherlock. I can't… I can't talk to him."

"Oh? Is he still abroad? I thought he was due back this… evening." At Violet's silence, John stammered, "Unless… D-did you already go around to Baker Street? Unannounced?"

The word 'unannounced' gave Violet pause.

"Shit," John said before she could answer, causing Violet's stomach to plummet even further. What did he know? "Listen, Violet. We need to talk. But we can't do it here, at my place. Do you think you could go back to Baker Street? We'll just sit in Mrs H's kitchen and—"

"No! I'm not going back to Baker Street."

"All right, all right… um… let me think."

"John, what's going on?"

"Violet, please trust me when I say I can't tell you over the phone."

"What?"

"How about… Do you know where Mycroft lives?"

Her head buzzed. This was all getting so confusing.

"In Jermyn Street."

"Good," John replied. "Can you go there? I'll meet you, but first I'll ring Mycroft to let him know in advance."

Violet stared resolutely through the car window as unfamiliar shops whizzed by.

"Okay, fine," she replied.

"Right. I'll see you then."

Violet ended the call, her insides twisting and turning.

… _Violet. We need to talk._

"Jermyn Street," she told the cabbie.

#

"They're in the parlor," the valet stiffly told Sherlock.

"Parlor," Sherlock scoffed under his breath, brushing past Oliver, who must be receiving overtime tonight, he mused.

Violet had her back to the door, while Mycroft stood in a dressing gown and pyjamas by the fireplace, looking as if he were the guest and Violet the host. He nursed a brandy, a cognac, specifically, and Violet was pouring herself a glass of the same. Her second, Sherlock deduced, because there was no way Mycroft would've poured himself a drink first and not his guest.

The older Holmes raised his eyebrows once he spied Sherlock.

"I was just informing Ms Hunter the reason for Ms Adler's presence in your flat," Mycroft said, prompting Violet to turned around. "All top secret of course." Addressing Violet, he added, "We really must get you to sign the Official Secrets Act."

Violet's eyes immediately hooded upon seeing Sherlock, even though he had tried his best to maintain a neutral expression and not launch into an interrogation the second she turned around. The last thing he wanted to do was continue the conversation about Irene Adler and her presence in his flat. But in a few seconds, Violet had crossed the room and had doused Sherlock in the face with her drink.

"What he couldn't tell me," she said, slightly slurring her words, "was at what stage you thought you'd get the information out of her by fucking her."

Sherlock shot daggers at his brother, while Leyrat Cognac dripped from his face.

"My office. Now!"

Sherlock about-faced, rapidly exiting the parlor and striding the length of the passageway for the cloakroom at the end. As he bent over the sink and washed off the cognac, he felt Mycroft's presence. Straightening up, Sherlock reached for the hand towel and wiped his face.

"Did you think to inform my girlfriend that there were no circumstances under which I would've had sexual relations with Ms Adler?"

"And how would I know that?"

"You are joking," Sherlock said, dumping the hand towel into the sink and glaring at Mycroft.

"No, I'm serious," his brother replied, with a tiny tilt of his head. "How can I know what you're going to do from one day to the next where women and… relations are concerned. One day—or should I say one night—you're trawling nightclubs for casual liaisons, and the next, you're planning holidays to America with Ms Hunter. What's next? A fling with a sex worker? It's just as likely."

Sherlock clenched his jaw.

"You're right," he said through narrow eyes. "How would you know." Brushing past Mycroft, he added, "Stay out of the parlor."

Entering the passageway, he heard the front doorbell chime. A confederate at last!

Beating the valet to the door, Sherlock opened it, exhaling a grateful sigh upon spying John Watson.

"Perhaps you can explain to Violet what living with Irene Adler's been like?" he asked his friend.

"Code red?" John replied, his eyes drifting to Sherlock's cheek. Not having checked himself, he could only surmise it glowed red from Violet's elbow smacking it in a particularly glorious backward jab.

Sherlock gave a grim nod in confirmation as he shut the door behind them. He was grateful John had called to tell him that Violet had contacted him.

Violet's eyes immediately widened when she saw John trailing Sherlock into the parlor.

"Thank God!" she exclaimed. "I've got a message to give to you." Violet avoided Sherlock's gaze as she led John by the hand over to a sofa.

"Are you okay?" John asked.

"I'm not talking to Sherlock—"

"Oh, for Christ's sake," Sherlock muttered.

"—so you have to pass this on."

"I'm right here."

"What's up?" John asked, shooting Sherlock a warning glance before taking a seat on the sofa beside Violet.

"Someone's severely pissed off," Violet began. "Whatever happened in Munich and Prague—they've noticed."

Sherlock's ears immediately pricked up. Munich and Prague? His missions abroad, courtesy of intel supplied by Irene Adler.

"What?" he demanded, making his way over to Violet. "Who? Who said this to you?"

"So he's to stop what he's doing," she continued, her voice wavering a little, "or three of my loved ones will die."

"Shit," said John.

"Violet!" Sherlock crouched in front of his girlfriend. "Tell me who threatened you. Where were you? At the hotel? On set? In a club? Tell me everything you remember."

"I'm not talking to you."

With a sigh, Sherlock pushed himself to his feet again.

"Let's operate on the working assumption that I have never and will never have sex with another woman, nor will I knowingly do or say anything that will jeopardise our relationship."

Violet stared pointedly across the room, but there was a flicker in her eyes. Uncertainty. Perhaps whatever was driving her to mistrust him had faltered a little.

He pushed, "Your well-being is more important to me than what you think of me right now. So tell me."

"Violet," John pressed. "Who told you this?"

"I can't say," she replied, her eyes welling with tears. "H-he ordered me not to give away his identity. If he s-suspects…" Violet sniffed once to compose herself before continuing. "H-he said if he gets wind of anyone investigating him, then someone will… will die. He has to be allowed to continue."

"Are you listening to this, Mycroft?" Sherlock called towards the door that led to the dining room. It came as no surprise when his brother materialised over the threshold.

"It seems your little jaunts around the continent haven't gone unnoticed," Mycroft said.

"I told you those plans had serious drawbacks," Sherlock retorted. "Irene Adler drip-feeding us information with us acting on them without any knowledge as to how these organisations were interconnected was inevitably going to backfire. We needed the whole lot, and only then could we devise a strategy to bring down individual networks without alerting the others as to what was happening. The only thing we can do now is to get Adler to hand over the entire contents of her phone."

"That's not possible," Mycroft replied. "Your rather aggressive phone call ordering me to remove Ms Adler from your premises resulted in her flight from Baker Street before my car could pick her up. She's gone. Disappeared again. And if this person finds her before we do, we've lost all but the latest intel. Belgium is next. We'll go ahead as planned."

"No," Sherlock replied, as Violet gave an almost inaudible gasp.

John swiftly rose from the sofa.

"There are lives at stake here, Mycroft," he said.

"Collateral damage," Mycroft said. "It's to be expected."

"Bastard," Violet called out, weakly.

"Actual _human_ lives," John continued. "Does that mean anything at all to you?"

Sherlock steepled his fingers to his lips and began to pace.

"Oh," he said under his breath. "Elegant."

"Just stay seated," he heard John say to Violet behind him. "I've got this. Sherlock?" When Sherlock remained in his contemplative fug, John sidled up to him and spoke in a low voice. "Violet? She might need some reassurance. She's … a bit upset."

"She's more than upset; she's been drinking ever since she left Australia."

"Yeah, so you'd better say something reassuring."

Instead, Sherlock turned once again to his brother and said, "The best thing we can do right now is stop what we're doing."

"That's absurd."

"At least until Ms Adler resurfaces and hands over her phone. This is not negotiable. You need me to do the leg work for you, and right now I'm not going anywhere."

"Sherlock—"

"Not. Negotiable."

"This is ridiculous," Mycroft said with a shake of his head. "All because of…" He gestured towards the sofa, where they all redirected their gaze.

Violet lay on her side, clutching a cushion, her eyes shut. Sherlock exhaled deeply as his heart twinged. Mycroft tutted.

"Violet?" John said, lightly touching her shoulder. Violet muttered something incoherent, but kept her eyes shuttered.

"She's okay," John said, straightening up. "Just—"

"Asleep," Sherlock said.

"—passed out," John finished.

"Dear Lord," Mycroft remarked, placing his hands on his hips. "Well this is a familiar sight."

Sherlock ignored his brother's comment as a wave of protectiveness surged through him. He replaced John by Violet's side, before he bent over and tenderly scooped her up in his arms.

"I take it the guest room upstairs is vacant?" he asked his brother. He felt Violet snuggle in under his neck, her breath cooling him there. His heart tripped at the thought of her being aware of his protective embrace, that her exhale was actually a contented sigh on her part.

"Yes, but—" Mycroft began.

"Then that's where we'll be staying tonight," Sherlock replied. "John, if you would be so kind as to go up and open the bedroom door. It's the second on your right."

John cleared his throat and looked from one brother to the next.

"Uh, yeah," he said, before vacating the room.

Stopping in front of his older sibling, Sherlock said, "Mycroft. This is the woman I love. The woman I've pledged to spend the rest of my life with. Her well-being is my number one priority. Get used to it."

Mycroft drew himself up to his full height.

"How charming," he said, with a smile that didn't meet his eyes. "You've found a kindred spirit in substance abuse. Our parents will be delighted." Dropping his gaze momentarily to Violet, he added, "In the old days, I would've just left you on the sofa."

"You would." Sherlock turned from his brother, calling back as he left the room, "It's a good thing I'm not you."


	16. I've Disappointed You

_**Author's Note**_

 _Apologies for the slow update. I'm not feeling all that motivated to write at the moment. This chapter was supposed to be longer, but that will take me some time to finish. I've cut it short so I could get it out earlier, before you all think I've abandoned the story._

 **Chapter 16 - I've Disappointed You**

#

Violet shifted in Sherlock's embrace.

Immediately alert, he asked, "Are you going to be sick?"

But Violet groggily rolled from him. After sliding from his side, Sherlock rounded the bed just as Violet half-stumbled from hers.

"Bathroom," she murmured, making a beeline for the ensuite. "—time is it?"

"Almost eight."

A curse as the door clicked shut behind her. Sherlock stared at the wooden panels, fingers twitching. Hovering. Listening. Satisfied that Violet wasn't being sick again, he looked about the room and decided to dress before heading downstairs.

By the time Sherlock returned from Mycroft's kitchen with a cup of tea, a glass of water and paracetamol, Violet was out of the bathroom, fully dressed and towel-drying her hair. She spared him half a glance before turning her back on him, busying herself with rummaging inside her backpack for various belongings.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked.

"Bit headachey."

"Here."

He held out the tablets and the water, waiting patiently until Violet turned around and acknowledged the offer.

"Thank you," she said, perfunctorily.

Uncertainty grated Sherlock's insides as he watched Violet gulp down the tablets. She could barely make eye contact with him, busying herself with her bag. He was losing her.

Sherlock ran a hand through his curls.

"Vi—"

"I have to get back home," Violet said, hauling her backpack over one shoulder. "Maurice is picking me up at nine."

"You can't go yet," Sherlock said.

"Why not?" Violet asked, making her way to the door. "I've given you the message. There's nothing more to say."

"You're not listening to me. Just stop for a minute." As Violet reached for the door handle, Sherlock added, "Please."

Such an odd word. It always seemed unnecessary. Superfluous to his needs. Usually he'd make a demand, then insult the recipient if they were too slow. But this request was pure desperation on his part.

He gestured towards the bed, adding, "I'd like to explain what you saw last night. Do me the courtesy..." He sighed and began again. "Could you please sit down?"

Lifting her chin, a gesture that indicated her usual impending obstinacy, Violet took the few steps towards the bed, before taking a seat on the edge.

Sherlock steadied himself with a deep inhale.

"What you saw last night was my usual arrogance at work," he began. "I have to be right. I have to be proven to be right, and those who think otherwise must be put in their place."

Violet's eyes met his, almost a good sign, if it wasn't for the frown already locked in place.

Sherlock folded his hands behind his back, bowing his head to the floor as he gathered his thoughts.

"Irene Adler," he began. He turned from Violet and began to pace, gesturing as he spoke. It felt better this way. "You know what she does for a living and Mycroft already explained her extra-curricula activities, as in acquiring sensitive information from people in positions of power."

"Yes," Violet said, with a touch of impatience.

"The way she obtains information is by probing people—her clients—when they're at their most vulnerable: disarming them, or unhinging them." Sherlock carefully avoided Violet's gaze as he about-turned. "She's been trying to work on me the whole time she's been in Baker Street. Quite unsuccessfully. It wasn't enough that she negotiated for Baker Street to be her safe house; she wanted to get under my skin." His chest heaved with a weary sigh, before he spoke quite quickly. "She was wearing my dressing gown because I threw it at her. She likes to parade around in the nude. John can attest to that, and so can Mrs Hudson. My dressing gown is the only garment she conceded to wearing. She would see that as a power play."

Sherlock braved a glance at Violet. Her brows were slightly raised now. In interest? A touch of sympathy for his plight, perhaps. He cleared his throat and soldiered on.

"Ms Adler kept proclaiming her professionalism. She never became personally involved, she said. Never allowed sentiment and emotions to cloud her judgement. But over the course of our… forced acquaintance… I could see the signs."

 _I like detective stories… and detectives…_

Violet remained still, as if she held her breath.

"I did nothing to encourage her interest," Sherlock went on, "apart from being myself. Solving crimes. Making deductions. But apparently, that's all it takes for some people."

He searched Violet's face for a hint of recognition of herself in his words, his own smile at the ready, but all he detected was the slight hardening of her jaw and narrowing of her eyes.

"That night… last night," he went on, "she was doing her usual thing—flirting; asking about you. I made a comment about her being jealous of you, and she remarked that that would imply she had feelings for me."

Irene Adler had dropped to her knees and asked Sherlock if he'd ever had a real woman. She liked to point out Violet's 'petiteness'—that the actress only ever took the role of teenage girls. Perhaps he would omit that little detail in his retelling.

When Violet remained silent, Sherlock took his place beside her on the bed. Her eyes widened a little.

Reaching for her hand, he said, "I wanted to detect the physical signs of her attraction. To prove that I was right. You see…" Sherlock slid his fingers to Violet's wrist. "I wasn't holding her hand…" Pivotting her wrist, he positioned two fingers on the delicate skin above the tendon. "…I was taking her pulse." He felt the thrum of Violet's galloping heart-rate. "It was elevated," he added. "And her pupils, dilated. I was leaning in to deliver my brutal deduction, when you… arrived."

 _You're aroused,_ was what he had been about to say to Irene. Best not reveal that little snippet either.

"Huh," was all Violet managed to utter before she drew back her hand and abruptly stood. "Typical fucking male."

"What?"

"That's all you men ever do," she said, turning for the door. "Find ways to put women in their place."

Sherlock's head buzzed as he, too, rose from the bed. Violet flung open the door and left the room.

"Wait," he called, following Violet along the passageway to the top of the stairs. "Do you want to stay angry with me, is that it?"

Whirling around, Violet spat, "Yes, I do!"

"After what I just explained to you?"

Violet thundered down the stairs. All he could manage to capture were the words, "position of power" and "fucking arseholes."

Violet reached the entrance way and looked about her as Sherlock descended hot on her heels.

"Viol—"

"Where's Mycroft's butler guy?" she demanded. "I need a car to get me back to Baker Street."

So now this persona had manifested itself: the entitled starlet. Sherlock huffed an irritable breath.

"They've both left for the day," he replied. "Why do you need another car to take you to the first? Why not ring the car company and change the pickup address?"

Violet gave Sherlock a blank look, prompting him to reach into his trouser pocket for his phone.

"Why don't I ring them for you?" he said, swiftly navigating the keys. "This'll give you time to have breakfast." And time for him to turn this around. As Violet stalked away from him, he muttered, "You can't start drinking again on an empty stomach."

He wanted to bite back his comment, but Violet had disappeared into the kitchen. Sherlock joined her there once he had made the call to the transport company. Violet stood in front of the toaster, her arms folded across her chest as she waited for the toast to pop up.

"Please don't say anything," she said in a kind of desperate whisper which caused Sherlock's heart to jolt.

"Nothing… happened," he said. He longed to envelope her in his arms, but there seemed to be an invisible barrier between them preventing him from moving any closer.

"I know," she said on an exhale, her back still to him. "Just… stop talking."

The air around Sherlock buzzed and crackled. Violet stood a mere metre away, but he felt as if he'd been hobbled. Stop talking?

He opened his mouth, then snapped it shut again.

The toast popped up with an out of place enthusiasm.

"I'm coming with you to Australia," he said.

Violet's shoulders sagged.

"No, you're not," she said, plucking out the toast.

"But you—"

"I don't need you!" Violet whirled around, butter knife in hand. "He won't be there anymore, if that's what you're thinking. And besides, I can look after myself!" Her eyes blazed with a fierce determination. "I've got a job to do…." She turned back around and proceeded to butter her toast. "Just let me get on with it."

A heavy weight descended on Sherlock.

"I'll come anyway."

"No… Leave… me… alone."

Sharp air sliced through Sherlock's lungs. What was going on here? This was much more than a reaction to Violet's mistimed entrance in 221B. But Sherlock could feel the disdain radiating from her. Was he losing her or had he already lost her?

Unable to process the current situation, Sherlock turned on his heels and marched out of the kitchen, back through to the parlour. He paced across the rug, steepling his hands to his mouth. Lost in his Mind Palace, replaying their most recent interactions over and over, he almost didn't hear the doorbell.

Of course it was the fucking driver, he thought upon opening the door.

"She'll just be a moment," Sherlock said to Maurice. The driver acknowledged him with a brief nod.

Sherlock shut the door to find Violet emerging from the kitchen, backpack and handbag in hand, sunglasses already perched on the top of her head.

"Please don't make a scene," she said. As if detecting Sherlock's stuttering heart, Violet approached him and planted a soft kiss on his cheek. "I'll be back at the end of the week," she whispered. And then almost inaudibly, "I love you."

The front door clicked shut and he let her go.

#

Sherlock continued staring at the crumpled paper in his hand, a knot forming in his stomach. Downstairs, the front door clicked shut, rousing him from his morose state. He knew those footfalls.

"Sher—" John began, before seeing Sherlock emerging from his bedroom through the kitchen. "What—"

Sherlock thrust the paper into John's hands and stalked into the living room his insides continuing to twist.

" _How Do I Know If I'm In a Toxic Relationship?_ "John read. "What's this?" There was a bubble of laughter in his tone.

"I found it amongst Violet's papers," Sherlock replied, gesturing towards his bedroom where Violet's personal belongings had been temporarily stored while Irene Adler had occupied the room upstairs. He began to pace.

"But this isn't…" John peered down at the paper again. " _He reads her emails,_ " he murmured, reading. " _Her_ emails," he repeated. "Not ' _my_ emails'."

"Precisely. It isn't Violet's handwriting."

"Then, who…?"

"Mandi. Her _BFF_." Sherlock's lip curled in distaste as he about-faced on the rug. "When she stayed here, before they left for Australia. Obviously, she filled it in on Violet's behalf."

John attempted a smile. It wasn't quite convincing.

"But Violet wouldn't believe any of this."

"Read it."

John cleared his throat.

"Question one. _Does your partner have no trust in you?"_ John hesitated before he read further. _"No. He reads her emails and text messages_." Looking up, he added, "You used to read my emails. It wasn't a question of trust. You're just a nosy bastard."

Sighing, Sherlock gestured towards the paper.

"Read on."

John's eyes dropped once more to the questionnaire.

"Question two," he said. " _Can you tell other people what he says or does? Vi never tells me anything about him._ Yeah, but…"

"Don't girlfriends tell each other things about their boyfriends? It's like a contract they have with each other. Obviously, Violet doesn't have any interesting anecdotes to tell."

"Yes, but…"

Sherlock quirked an eyebrow, waiting for John's response in his defence.

"Y-you… you're a private detective," John replied. "She can't talk about… your work."

Sherlock sighed and steepled his hands to his mouth, turning from John.

"Go on," he said.

"Look, Sherlock…"

"I've always said it helps me to see through someone else's eyes. So… read."

"Question three," John said, exhaling heavily. " _Does your partner want you to change."_ He emitted a barely audible tut before he read on. _"He hates her job. He would rather she get beaten up by supposed mob bosses for him._ four: _Does your partner put you down in front of others? Threw away the dinner she made right in front of me._ Look, Sherlock, what's the point in me reading all this? For a start: I've seen you help her out with her work. For God's sake, you were on national telly at the TELSAs. You were backstage on _The Late Show_. If you wanted her to change her job, then why are you everywhere, alongside her? This is _you_ we're talking about. Violet loves _you_ … she fell in love with you, with you being exactly the way you are. You threw away her dinner? You threw away _my_ dinner. The one _I_ was still eating, because you wanted me to follow you on some… wild goose chase."

Sherlock's mood continued to see-saw. So he supported Violet in her work? He knew deep down he would rather she worked alongside _him_ , on _his_ cases.

The sound of paper crumpling drew Sherlock's attention back on John.

"And this?" the doctor said, holding up the ball of paper, before making for the kitchen, "this belongs in the bin." Pressing the pedal down on the rubbish bin, he added, "Looks like Violet screwed it up already."

"And then flattened it out and stored it with her things."

"Or her best friend did."

Sherlock bowed his head and raked a hand through his curls as John approached.

"Are you actually worried about that?" his friend asked, pointing in the direction of the kitchen. "Because that was teenage stuff. Highschool stuff. Did Violet actually change the way she treated you because of it?"

"She's been in Australia all this time."

"And you've been talking to her regularly."

Sherlock stared unseeing at a pile of books teetering precariously on the shelving in the corner of the living room. He heaved a sigh.

"And now this has happened... Irene Adler... and she's gone back to Australia, upset, where her best friend can give her advice on how to get rid of her toxic boyfriend. Because that's what I am, aren't I?"

John shook his head.

"Nope," he replied. "We're not doing this. That's kids' stuff. You're an adult. Vio—"

"Broadly speaking."

"—let's an adult. Why not have an adult conversation about it? Ring her the minute she lands."

Sherlock lifted his gaze, his mind rapidly calculating every possible scenario. The last time he'd taken John's advice when Violet had walked out on him and had departed to Manchester, Sherlock had lost her for three months.

"No," he finally told John. "There's only one solution." Sherlock straightened up and drew in a steadying breath. "I'm going to have to leave for Australia."

#


	17. Don't Make Me Order You

**Chapter 17 - Don't Make Me Order You**

"It's easy and quite acceptable to feel betrayed at this stage," Tim Killaney said with a reassuring smile.

Violet tilted her head.

"I'm sorry… what?"

Tim had veered into the unknown, having just asked Violet how she was feeling while she fixed a salad for her and Mandi's dinner. Did he know about the situation with Sherlock and Irene Adler? Had the paparazzi been snooping at Baker Street or Jermyn Street? The bloody valet!

Tim exhaled deeply, his shoulders relaxing as he did so.

"I'm just saying some… some actors can look back at their success and see it as a series of great opportunities… the right place at the right time… you know that… and meeting the right people. Networking."

Violet furrowed her brow, her skin prickling. What did this have to do with anything?

"What are you saying?" she asked. She stopped what she was doing, a single leaf of cos lettuce clutched in her hand.

"I'm saying that… that meeting Jim Moriarty may not be the worst thing that's ever happened to you or your career."

Violet gaped at her co-star from across the kitchen counter, her mind buzzing.

Timothy continued. "Jim may… may have helped with my career, too."

Her heart jolted. Searching Tim's eyes for evidence he was telling the truth, a fierce heat spread across her cheeks.

"Jim is threatening you, too?" she asked.

Tim blinked, recoiling a little.

"No… I mean…"

All the fear, the doubt, the betrayal she'd felt while on the flight from the east coast of Australia to London slowly spread throughout her body, pouring in like quick-dry cement.

"You think," Violet said carefully, her veins hardening, "that having Jim Moriarty controlling my every move isn't the worst thing that could've happened to me?"

"It's not like that. Violet… come on."

He attempted to placate her with open hands and a half smile. Violet found no comfort in either his words or manner. She straightened up.

"What's he threatening you with?" she asked.

"What's he…?" Tim tried to shrug. "Why would you…? Nothing, of course."

Violet flicked the lettuce into the glass bowl and placed both hands on the counter.

"He's got something on you or is threatening someone you care about. Which is it?"

"It's…" Tim began, but paused to reconsider. He folded his arms across his chest. She'd never seen Killaney so unsure of himself before. It was an odd sight. "My… my… well, one of my relatives attempted to cover up something they'd done when they were younger."

"So, you're… protecting them? By being one of Jim's playthings? Because that's what we are, aren't we?"

"Look, it's really not so—"

At that moment, Mandi entered the apartment.

"Low-fat, Italian," she said, holding up a bottle of salad dressing as she crossed the room. "That okay? It's got some sugar, but…"

"It's fine, Mandi," Violet swiftly replied.

"Are you staying for dinner, Tim?" Mandi asked sweetly.

"No… I… er…"

"I'll walk you out," Violet said, rounding the counter.

As she and Tim walked towards the front door, Mandi remarked, "You've hardly done anything about dinner. One lettuce leaf?"

Once they'd exited into the passageway, Violet asked in a low voice, "Did he send you?"

Tim hesitated, then nodded.

"He was concerned you took off back to London because you were upset with him," he replied. "He just wanted me to check that you were okay. Let you know you had a confidant."

"A… confidant?" Violet repeated through gritted teeth. The gall of the man! Now he was planting concerned friends in her life.

"Because we're both in the same situation," Tim went on. "It's really not that ba—"

"This isn't…" Violet choked. "The man's a criminal! He has people killed!"

Confusion flitted across Tim's face, before he quickly masked it.

"He's never… No… he's just a savvy businessman."

Violet's face felt hot and her insides convulsed. Was Timothy quite ignorant of everything Jim Moriarty was capable of?

"Fine," she said, schooling her features into a neutral expression. Just who was the better actor here? "Tell him I'm fine. Everything's just as he wanted it to be. I'll see you on set tomorrow."

#

Violet smoothed the moisturiser across her cheeks and brow bone. The studio makeup artist had advised her that this would save ten minutes in the chair if she'd already applied the cream and let it soak in before undergoing the full treatment. As it was, Violet was required in the hair and makeup trailer at 5am. Anything that gave her a few extra minutes sleep was great advice.

Mandi dashed past. Violet couldn't believe that Mandi Doniellson, the former party girl of Manchester, was now an early riser.

"Right," her P.A. said. "I've got your phone… water… almonds… oh, and—"

"May I have my phone, please?" Violet asked, holding out her hand.

She needed one final check that Sherlock hadn't tried to contact her. Knots formed in her stomach whenever she thought of what happened in London. Of course she trusted him, the stupid man. But he hadn't been there for her when she was counting on him the most.

The flight back to Australia had been torturously slow. Violet had forced herself to abstain from alcohol. Sleep came in fits and starts. She couldn't distract herself in the usual manner with in-flight entertainment. Books were out, ever since her beloved _Canning Town_ had become tainted with Jim Moriarty's touch. Movies and TV shows, ditto. Sherlock was a reminder that this world existed: the _real_ world as Jim had informed her. She could only make it through the next few days if she believed her fairy tale world was the real one, and that meant putting the man she loved out of her mind for the next few days.

Violet glanced at the phone screen. Two emails from Polly, one from Bre and—

"I'll get to those emails in the car," Mandi said, gesturing to the phone. "But you shouldn't get distracted by them. Focus, remember!"

At least Mandi had one thing right.

"I just have to check something in a minute," Violet replied, pocketing her phone. One final connection to Sherlock, like a drug addict who needed one last fix before detox. "My hair," she added distractedly, marching back towards her bedroom.

"It'll dry in the car," Mandi grumbled behind her.

Violet stopped in the middle of her room and closed her eyes with a deep sigh. She just needed to reset, avoid the panic that could rise inside her and cripple her. Forget all this. Pretend it never happened. Jim Moriarty. Sherlock and Irene Adler. And now Timothy Killaney. Just focus on getting to the end of filming.

She heard a faint knock on the apartment door.

Fuck me, transport's early, she thought, her eyes flicking accusingly to the digital clock on her bedside table. _I had eleven minutes left to calm myself!_

"Oh!" she heard Mandi exclaim. "What the fuck—?"

Curious as to Mandi's reaction upon opening the door, Violet left the bedroom.

Her heart stopped at the sight of the tall, slim man crossing the threshold with a determined stride. Her mind just couldn't compute. Mouth gaping, his name tumbled out.

"Sherlock."

His expression softened upon seeing Violet. She, in turn, stopped breathing as he approached.

"I didn't think we'd finished our conversation in London," he said in a low voice.

He moved as if to embrace her, but Violet stepped out of his reach, about-turned, and strode back into her bedroom.

"Transpo'll be here in five!" Mandi called, a mild panic in her tone. "And you've not eaten!"

Violet closed the door behind Sherlock after he'd entered the room.

"You can't be here," she said, attempting to quell the hysteria rising inside.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked, his expression grim, his pallor grey, as if he, too, were under a lot of strain.

Either that, or because he'd just flown for the last twenty-something hours.

Violet scrambled for the appropriate words—ones that would mask the truth about Jim Moriarty and the hold he had on her career.

"I just want to know if we're okay," Sherlock said, filling the silence. His words took on a rough edge as if his emotions were also struggling to break free. There was quiet desperation in his eyes, an image that almost caused Violet's heart to escape confinement.

"What?"

Sherlock reached into his trouser pocket and produced a piece of paper that looked like it had been through the wringer. He handed it to Violet. A cool sweat broke out on her skin when she read the familiar words.

 _How Do I Know If I'm In a Toxic Relationship?_

"What… how…?" She swallowed and began again. "I threw this away. How did you get it?"

"I found it amongst your things, inside a book on improvisation. It… it fell out when I was taking a box of your possessions back to your room." Sherlock cleared his throat. "I moved everything out when Ms Adler moved in upstairs."

He'd spoken at an almost manic pace, but Violet was still reeling about the fact that he'd read the stupid thing.

"It's rubbish," she said, crumpling up the questionnaire. Tossing it to the corner of her room where the rubbish bin sat—and missing completely—she added, "And I didn't fill it in."

"I know," Sherlock replied. "It's Mandi's handwriting."

"That has nothing to do with this."

"Then why are you—"

"I can't have you here because I'm trying to… I have to work. And you being here reminds me of the shit that our life attracts. And I can't…" Violet's voice cracked when she saw a flicker of hurt in Sherlock's eyes. She paused to draw breath and reorient herself. "I can't concentrate," she finished, lifting a hand to knead her brow just as a soft but insistent knock resounded at the bedroom door.

"We have to go, Vi!" called Mandi.

"Just give me a minute," Violet responded.

"I want to be here for you," Sherlock added. Violet turned from him, dropping her head to her hand. "And I don't like this," he went on. "You can barely look at me, and she's out there, in your ear about everything, from transport to breakfast to her attitude towards me. And now she has a completed questionnaire as evidence of my toxicity."

Violet met Sherlock's gaze.

"Nothing she's ever said about you changes the way I feel about you. And the same applies to that… that fucking questionnaire."

"Then why can't I stay?"

Violet straightened up and faced Sherlock square on.

"Because you'll have nothing to do. Because the threat to me isn't here anymore. Because you'll go digging into lives of the production team, the hotel staff, the… the guy who delivers me a coffee each morning. Because you'll be worried when I don't return from set when we're struggling to make the day's shoot. Because _I'll_ be worried you're bored and going out of your mind. Because you represent…" _Everything that's being taken away from me._ "… him." _Jim Moriarty._

Sherlock blinked, and Violet waited, her insides rippling with guilt, for him to deduce her thoughts.

Instead, he stood taller and looked down at her.

"If you would just trust me to solve th—"

"No! It's not going to become one of your stupid cases!"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and he inhaled sharply, the gesture he usually made before delivering a brutal deduction. Instead, he appeared to reconsider, giving a barely imperceptible nod, before turning and swiftly exiting the room.

"Sherlock," Violet started, hot on his heels. "Tell me you're not going to do anything." Her insides were twisting and turning. "This isn't a case. Promise me."

Mandi looked on in startled bewilderment. Sherlock stood across the room from Violet, the pair of them metal poles, between which static electricity buzzed.

With apparent deadly calm, Sherlock replied, "This _is_ one of my stupid cases. In fact, it's probably one of the most important cases of my life. If it's about you, then that makes it so."

"It's over!"

Sherlock began to approach her, folding his hands behind his back. Violet knew what that gesture meant and she drew in a steadying breath.

"You were upset before you even arrived in London. You were drinking on the flight."

Violet threw a quick glance in Mandi's direction. Her friend stood with wide eyes, watching Sherlock.

"This was more than just a message to me," Sherlock continued. "You didn't react in this way when you received the same from Jake."

"But that's because—" Violet began, then she stopped. She didn't want to mention the threat against Mandi's life in front of her best friend.

"You can barely make eye contact with me," Sherlock went on, "which means you're afraid I'll deduce what's really—"

"It's because of London," Violet interjected, attempting to steer the conversation away from Jim and his threats. "Every time I look at you, I see _her_." It wasn't an entirely _untrue_ statement.

Sherlock's nostrils flared.

"I explained to you the circumstances under wh—"

"It makes no difference. I still see—"

"Then make an effort to compartmentalise," he replied with a touch of impatience. "Do you think I still don't see you and Spence in a passionate kiss, on stage—something I witnessed several times over the course of a week? And having your clothes torn off by that lecherous old man in _Catherine Wilderness_." Violet opened her mouth to correct him, when Sherlock swiftly added, " _Hilderness_ ," with great distaste. "And then I'm supposed to sit back and watch you simulate not one but three sex scenes with Mr Huggy, each one more explicit than the one before. Those stage directions are quite prescriptive. But yes, I can do that, because it's your work. It's what you do. So that…" Sherlock pointed to the wall, and Violet surmised he knew exactly in which direction London was located, "… that was _my_ work. Pointing out someone else's folly is what I do."

"You're a piece of shite, actually," Mandi volunteered.

"Mandi," Violet responded, a note of warning in her tone. To Sherlock she said again, "I'm asking you not to do anything."

His eyes challenged hers when he asked, "May I stay?"

Violet debated for all of two seconds before she answered, "No."

There was a twitch in Sherlock's left cheek that Violet couldn't immediately decipher. Anger? Disappointment? Other than that, his expression remained impassive. In quick time, he turned and headed straight for the front door. The click of the latch as the door closed released Violet from the hold she had on her emotions, and her breath shuddered on the way out.

"Fucking hell," Mandi said. "Glad we've got that sorted. Can you chuck your next boyfriend over the phone? I couldn't stand more of that. Talk about awkward."

Mandi's words startled Violet into action. Wiping the beginnings of tears with the back of her hand, she said, "What? We haven't broken up."

"You're joking," Mandi said, retrieving her tote bag from the sofa. "That was a smashin' break up. I've never heard you stand up to him before. He couldn't even take it. What a fucking arsehole. Arrogant sod."

Violet's thoughts were in a whirl.

"No," she countered. "I wasn't breaking up with him."

Panic rose in her chest and she quickly made for the door. Is that what Sherlock thought, too?

"Stay here, Mandi," she called back.

"You what?"

Violet broke into a light jog along the carpeted hallway. She heard the soft ding of the lift in the alcove to the left.

"Sherlock!" she called, puffing lightly.

She veered sharply around the corner and almost collided with him as he turned from the opening doors.

Violet flung her arms around his neck and held fast, desperation bubbling up inside her. Sherlock slid his arms around her waist, bending his head and touching his cheek to hers.

"It's okay," he soothed, holding her fast as she trembled against him. Fat tears flowed down her cheeks, which she did nothing to staunch.

She felt the tension leave her in waves as Sherlock tightened his embrace.

Dear God, he felt so good.

Violet pulled away and said through misty eyes, "I… didn't… break up with you."

"I know," he replied, his brow furrowed. "We don't always see eye to eye, but that's no reason to—"

"But this is more important than anything else. People I care about are in danger."

"Yes, I know, but—"

The second lift dinged, signalling the arrival of other people to the floor. Sherlock quickly took Violet by the hand.

"This way," he bid her, directing them both to a door off to the side of the lifts before the lift doors opened.

Before she fully registered where they were, Sherlock had pulled her through the door, then cradled his hands to her face, pressing a soft kiss to her lips. The door slammed shut, its echo reverberating off the walls. With her eyes firmly shut, and automatic lights clicking on overhead, she assumed they were in a stairwell.

His mouth warm and firm on hers, Violet clutched at Sherlock's lapels. His kiss was patient but a familiar yearning still rose up inside her. She applied pressure, deepening their kiss, while sliding her hands to his neck until they threaded through his curls. Her heart continued to thump steadily as their tongues entwined, until Sherlock gently pulled away. He caressed her cheek with his thumb.

"I love you," he said, his eyes glistening. "And I won't do anything to hurt or upset you. I stormed out because my ego is a bit bruised."

Violet's breath caught and she inhaled again to steady herself.

"I didn't want you to go without knowing I still love you," she replied. "And I want to sort this out, I really do, but not here, not now. When I get back. I promise."

The beginnings of a smile tugged at his mouth, sending another ripple through Violet.

"Are you sure I can't stay?" he asked.

"It's tempting, but no," she replied regretfully.

Violet's phone buzzed with an all-too-familiar tune.

"It's Mandi," she said, sighing. Sherlock released his hold on her, giving Violet room to reach for her phone.

"Where the fuck are ya?" Mandi asked. "Did you go downstairs already?"

"No, we're… I'm just coming."

Violet reached for the door handle just as Sherlock remarked, "I think it's…"

The handle didn't turn.

"It's a security thing," he continued. "Sorry. Only the ground floor door opens from the inside."

"What?" Violet said, jiggling the lever ineffectually. "Mandi. You're going to have let us out of the stairwell."

"Once you're in the stairwell, you can only exit at ground level," Sherlock repeated.

Violet ended the call just as she heard Mandi swear.

"I… probably should've mentioned that earlier," Sherlock added with a sheepish smile.

The door suddenly swung inwards, forcing Violet out of the way.

"You're fucking kidding me," Mandi said, glaring past Violet towards Sherlock.

"It was an accident," Violet said. "We just wanted—"

"You locked her in the stairwell?" Mandi said to Sherlock. "You know, mate, you're a first class cunt!"

"Mandi!"

"And you're a first cl—"

"Sherlock!"

She warned her boyfriend against delivering his next deduction with a hand against his chest.

Turning to Mandi, Violet added, "We came in here to have a private conversation."

Mandi, Violet noticed, held her tote bag, plus Violet's handbag. She'd obviously called Violet from the lift area.

"I'll take the stairs," Sherlock said, his eyes darting meaningfully towards Violet's P.A.

Violet farewelled him with a kiss and whispered that she'd see him in a few days.

As they entered the lift, Mandi remarked, "Thought you'd chucked him. Had me hopes up for a minute."

"As my personal assistant, you're not allowed to have an opinion on my relationships."

"Well, as your best friend—"

"You're not my best friend again until a fire you," Violet retorted as the lift doors drew to a close. "So don't say anything to make me fire you."

Mandi handed Violet a pair of sunglasses, which Violet dutifully donned.

"Now about this best friend," Violet began. "There's a certain questionnaire that keeps appearing…"

#

Violet gulped down her water, thankful for the relief the marquee brought from the blazing sun. She pulled at the neckline of her Spandex costume once more. She couldn't do it. Didn't think she had another one in her. Heidi would have to fill in for her. Now where's that damn spritz bottle?

"Can you take this?" Mandi asked, appearing in front of Violet and waving her phone around.

"Makeup has a fan," Violet said, reaching for the phone. "One of those pedestal things. Can you see if I can get one?" Fuck's sake, Violet thought. Why is it so fucking hot? The water truck was drenching the street again and Violet idly wondered if she could stand under it.

"Hello?" she said into the phone. Would Sherlock even be back in London yet?

"All right, Vi?" spoke a male voice.

"Danny!"

"You working?"

"Yes, it's just so stinking hot. I'm supposed to be running and fighting with weapons, but we're waiting for the temperature to drop. How are you?"

There was a pause, which Violet attributed to international roaming, or whatever it was. But Danny's voice was considerably lower when he spoke again.

"'fraid I've got some bad news," he said.

Violet stopped tugging her neckline. Her mouth ran dry. Water. She needed a fucking drink of water. Where had Mandi got to?

"It's Em. I'm sorry."

 _Emily?_

"What?" she asked.

"Yeah, me mate Niall went round to check and he spoke to Riley."

"What happened?"

"They think she were speedballing."

"What - happened? When was this?"

The air around Violet grew still, pressing in on her.

"Yeah, sorry, Vi. She had a cardiac arrest in the ambulance on the way to the hospital just last night. I'm sorry. She's…"

Everything went black on the edges. Violet could see the ground rushing to meet her. There were muffled exclamations all around her, but all she could think was how cool the ground felt, how relieved she was to be lying down… and _Emily… she's dead, Vi. I'm sorry._

… _your friend Emily here will die from a heroin overdose…_

 _Jim?_

… _if I even hear a whisper that I'm being investigated, then you may as well plunge in the knife yourself… or the syringe…_

Investigated?

Sherlock.

 _Sherlock!_

 _What the fuck have you done?_

#


	18. Downgraded to Casual Acquaintance

**Author's Note:**

 _ **We're finally up to the moment they break up, as indicated in the Prologue. Apologies for taking so long to get here. This is the midpoint of the story. Thanks for sticking with it.**_

#

 **Chapter 18 - Downgraded To Casual Acquaintance**

 **THE STREET HERALD**  
 **Monday 11th November**

 _ **VIOLET HUNTER COLLAPSES**_  
 _ **ON SET OF RISE OF THE FIVE**_

Producers called paramedics to the set of the _Anuket's Children_ sequel as British actress Violet Hunter collapsed while waiting to shoot a minor scene in the eagerly awaited blockbuster. Hunter's personal assistant said she had been working long hours and had suffered from exhaustion and dehydration.

Studio reps have confirmed that the actress recovered quite quickly and will resume filming tomorrow.

The former _Regency Road_ soap star has been shooting the movie on the Gold Coast in Australia since mid-September. Production moved to Brisbane last week. Soaring temperatures and a heavy filming schedule may have been contributing factors according to an anonymous studio source.

The Anuket's Children sequel, _The Rise of the Five,_ is expected to wrap principal photography this week. Hunter plays the Egyptian deity, Satis, who makes up the fifth member of the Anuket's Children band of superheroes.

Hunter is expected to return to the UK to take up a lead role opposite Alex Breville in the dark romance thriller, _Improbity_.

#

Violet ended the call on Sherlock's answering service without leaving a message.

"You're meant to be lying down!" Mandi reprimanded her, not for the first time.

Violet abruptly changed direction, her treads wearing the apartment carpet thin. Her heart hammered in her chest.

"I'm fine," she replied to her P.A., reciting the words in a monotone. She'd been saying them ever since the studio medic, a lovely woman named Bea, had checked her over.

But Violet wasn't fine. Had Sherlock betrayed her, breaking his promise? Had he even promised not to do anything? Had he set things in motion the moment he'd left her in the stairwell?

Violet lifted her phone and pressed Sherlock's number once more.

"You're scaring me!" Mandi protested, prompting Violet to escape into her bedroom.

"Sherlock," she said, after the tone. "Ring me. _This time, it really is urgent!_ "

Fucking hell! she thought, throwing her phone onto the bed. How long had it been since he'd left her? Surely he'd be back in London by now.

After a moment, Violet sank down onto the bed, a heavy weariness settling into every bone in her body.

 _Emily_.

 _I'm sorry, Vi,_ Danny had said. _She's dead._

"Are you going to sleep now?" Mandi said, her friend hovering in the doorway.

"What? No."

Violet immediately stood up.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," Mandi replied. "You should at least eat. And there's nowt here, so I'll go out to the—"

"No!" Violet protested, a panic rising inside. She couldn't let Mandi out of her sight when there was a threat against her friend's life! Not when her other friend… "Don't go anywhere," Violet added. "I… I just want you to stay near me."

"Well, that's all fine and dandy," the redhead remarked, her brow furrowed. Placing her hands on her hips, she asked, "What are we supposed to eat, then?"

"Ring room service."

"Now you really are fucking scaring me," Mandi said, turning from Violet and making for the living area. "But I'll take that offer!" she called back.

Violet went to follow Mandi, thought the better of it, and grabbed her phone from the bed. She stared at Sherlock's number and startled when the phone began to ring. Swearing in shock she moved to close the bedroom door, ignoring Mandi's query of, "What happened?"

"Sherlock," Violet choked. "What did you do?"

"Sorry, what?" he asked. His concerned baritone tugged at her, crippling her at the knees, forcing her to sink down onto the bed once more.

In a sob, she replied, "Emily." Tears came thick and fast now. "She's… dead."

"What? Who?"

"Don't you fucking dare!" she raged, her throat thickened by emotion. "You can't have forgotten who she is."

"Violet, I—"

"She's… dead. He had her killed… because of… something… you did."

"Wait—"

" _What did you do!_ "

"I've only just got—"

"You promised you wouldn't do anything!"

There was silence from Sherlock's end. Violet's chest heaved from her emotional outburst—every breath hurt—but she kept the phone to her ear, straining to hear Sherlock's confession, her heart aching at the thought of his betrayal. But it didn't come.

After a further moment's silence, he finally said, swiftly, "Okay. I'm going to hang up now and we'll skype instead. Before we talk again, I want you to put music on. Play it on your phone out loud. Or better still, use your Bluetooth thingie, all right? You did take it to Australia, didn't you? It's not here. That speaker thing you use when you're getting ready for some event and you play that repulsive nightclub music I hate. Okay? It'll calm you down. Do it, and I'll speak to you soon."

"What the fuck…" Violet began, but further silence prompted her to check her screen. Sherlock had ended the call.

She sat on her bed, staring at her blank phone screen, feeling her cheeks flush.

Why was he…? What was he talking about? What did he mean?

In a snap, Violet was off the bed and through the door.

"Mandi!" she called, looking wildly about the living area, while her P.A. sat on the sofa, leisurely poring over the room service menu. "Where's my Bluetooth speaker? Did you bring it from the Gold Coast? I would've left it in the bathroom."

"Uh, yeah. It's in the bathroom here," Mandi replied without looking up. "Can you eat risotto?"

Violet ignored the question and marched into the bathroom, her heart pounding. When it really boiled down to it, she had faith in Sherlock and knew his specific instructions were for a purpose. He wasn't trying to get her to relax through music. With swift, self-assured movements, she arranged her speaker on top of the dresser in her bedroom and paired her phone to it. The music Sherlock loathed so much surrounded her, cutting her off from the world, and she closed her eyes as the repetitive base tripped her heart.

Violet arranged herself on the bed with her laptop in front of her and willed herself to calm down. Nothing more than heat exhaustion was the official word on her collapse on set yesterday. Nobody connected the phone call she'd just received from Danny with Violet Hunter fainting. Not that she was going to tell anyone about it.

She quickly answered when the Skype programme bleeped with the sound of an incoming call.

"Hello," Sherlock seemed to say. Violet had to read his lips over the strobing bass. Quite clearly he was in a cab, navigating through a rainy London morning just before peak hour.

"I can barely hear you," Violet replied.

He said something else, and Violet stared at him blankly. He held up earbuds for his phone, prompting Violet to reach over to her bedside table for her headphones. After sliding them over her ears, the nightclub music dulled to a soothing background throb.

"So I phoned Mycroft," Sherlock went on without preamble. "And he hasn't mobilised anyone in Europe. He wouldn't do anything without my say-so. I've only just arrived back in London. Are you sure she was murdered because of some supposed action on my part?"

Violet nodded numbly, then drew in a calming breath before replying.

"He said it was more likely she'd die of a heroin overdose, but Danny said she was speedballing. She's never done that before."

Sherlock leant back in the seat of the cab, staring out of the window deep in thought.

"And what was the exact threat to you?" he asked eventually.

Violet swallowed the lump in her throat.

"That if he even got wind of anyone investigating him, then someone would die. And it would be… my fault."

Sherlock rubbed his lower lip with the back of his thumb, his eyes turning to slits.

Would Emily have been speedballing these days, Violet wondered. How would she know? What did she know about her friends in Manchester these days.

"Maybe she—"

"Investigating him?" Sherlock asked, interrupting her. "As in researching him?"

"I guess—"

"I'll ring you back."

"Sher—"

He was gone.

Violet stared at the Skype window, her breath coming in steady bursts. She felt an odd comfort knowing that not only had Sherlock not deliberately acted contrary to Jim's orders, but that he was taking her seriously.

She removed her headphones and shoved her laptop aside before stretching out along the bed. Closing her eyes, she allowed the music to transport her to Kabuki's nightclub of the previous year. Despite the upbeat tempo, she felt the tension leave her body. For a few moments, she felt cut off from the world.

Perhaps Jim was mistaken. Maybe he knew Sherlock had visited Violet in Australia and he assumed Violet had told her boyfriend all about the Chief Operating Officer of Etienne-Lumiere Studios. But that's stupid. How could he make such an assumption. Violet would've reunited with Sherlock eventually, when production wrapped. It didn't mean she was going to tell Sherlock Holmes everything.

"—doing?"

Violet opened her eyes and propped herself up on her elbows. Mandi was staring at her from the doorway.

"I'm… distracting myself through music," Violet replied. "By putting myself somewhere else."

"You're fucking nuts," Mandi yelled over the music. "I'm ordering you a steak, all right?"

Violet nodded blandly.

"I think it's your iron levels," Mandi went on. "You've been eating nothing but chicken and leaves and eggs. You need a bloody steak!"

"Yeah, fine," Violet replied, waving her P.A. away.

"Are you coming out?" Mandi asked.

"No, I'm waiting on a call from Sherlock," Violet replied, indicating her laptop.

Wrinkling her nose and shaking her head, Mandi left the room, closing the door behind her.

Violet reclined again and stared at the ceiling. Without really thinking about it, she tapped one foot in time to the music.

Should she be doing something? Sherlock obviously had a lead. Bloody typical of him not to fill her in until afterwards. Probably wouldn't hear from him for days, so it wouldn't do her any good to lie there, doing nothing. Although, she _was_ supposed to be resting. Another full day on set tomorrow.

A flash caught her attention, and she straightened up. Sherlock was calling her again through Skype and her heart quickened. Swiftly she donned her headphones and answered the call, the music once again subdued to a dull beat.

"I'm home," Sherlock said, unnecessarily, for Violet could see he was seated at his living room table, probably calling her from his computer rather than his phone as he had done in the cab. "And this was waiting for me," he continued, holding up a manilla file stuffed with papers. "Just as I suspected."

"What is it?" Violet asked.

"The information you requested," he said gravely.

A shiver ran down Violet's spine.

"What do you mean?" she asked.

Opening the file, Sherlock began to read.

" _Arthur Avenue._ You wanted to know why they're stalling. It was because of an actor called Harold Weald. Same era as Justin Behmes. Good old Harry Weald would be your co-star, wouldn't he? Sounds like they're trying to resurrect his career—a favour for an old friend—but they're still battling Harry's cocaine addiction."

He glanced up at Violet, whose face had drained of blood.

" _Glitz and Gomorrah_ ," he went on, reading once more. "Asha Steeple has been signed for the role of Mary Pickford—that's the lead role you were asking about, isn't it? You said it hadn't been confirmed officially." Holding up a single sheet of paper, Sherlock added, "It has now."

Violet wanted him to stop, because if this was leading to where she thought it was leading, then it… _Emily's death_ … was clearly her fault.

"But production is in turmoil due to the sudden death of the Executive Producer, Hersch Gleitzman," Sherlock continued. "Stabbed after an apparent mugging in New York."

Sherlock's voice droned on in her ears, but all Violet could think of was that it was _her fault._

"—after twelve hours of surgery," he was saying, "but they weren't able to revive him. Massive cardiac arrest. But—" _Her fault._ "You know what this means, don't you?" Sherlock asked her.

Violet couldn't reply. Her mouth had run dry, thoughts numbed with guilt.

"This," Sherlock said, holding up the file, "is the only research that's been conducted on my behalf during my absence. All these people are somehow related to you through your work, because you requested I do some digging. I referred it to Mycroft, obviously—it hardly required legwork—and he had his minions conduct the research. So…" He began to recite as he flicked back through the pages. "Harry Weald? Is he the man who threatened you? Unlikely. Sounds like a complete moron. Throwback to the eighties. Justin Behmes—well, we already know about him, having investigated Splendor Pictures some time ago. Benign. Asha Steeple. Clawed her way to the top, apparently, could possibly be a secret criminal mastermind, but you said 'he' on several occasions, so that eliminates the females. Now… Hersch Gleitzman, loads of information on him. Could write a book! But he was murdered. Perhaps he faked his death so he could carry on his nefarious activities, unhindered. It can happen. I personally know of a case where a couple faked their own deaths after a mutual suicide pact. I showed you their wedding rings once, remember? Perhaps he—"

"Stop it," Violet said.

"—wanted to…"

It was _her fault_ Emily had died _. She did this._

"Hersch Gleitzman?" Sherlock said, his tone considerably lower.

"No," Violet choked, with a vague shake of her head. Not Hersch, but Sherlock was getting warm. She had asked him to find out information about these films, studios and people.

"Then who?" he asked, rifling back through the pages. "Gleitzman is the perfect candidate. Loads of material on him. Seems to have a lot of influence around the place with hints of inappropriate behaviour. Because you asked about… Ah!" He stopped, his attention drawn to the file folder. "You made a third request of me."

Violet stopped breathing.

" _Canning Town_ ," Sherlock said, reading. "Stacia Jecks."

"Sherlock."

"A recluse. Sounds like the perfect cover to me. Hide yourself away from the world, when really you're controlling all of the criminal networks around Europe. But since we're eliminating all females…"

Violet held her now visibly trembling hand over her mouth. But Sherlock hadn't noticed because he was still reading. "You wanted to know if Jecks had signed away the film rights for _Canning Town_. It would seem so. A man named James Moriarty. He's…"

Sherlock stopped speaking as his eyes rapidly scanned the page.

"… the Chief Operating Officer of Etienne-Lumiere Studios," he recited. Sherlock looked up partway through saying, "Isn't that the studio produ—"

Violet's eyes had filled with tears. Sherlock's gaze locked on hers.

"James Moriarty," he repeated, his voice like gravel.

Violet nodded. The gesture felt mechanical and jerky, and she didn't even know if it registered as a movement.

"James Moriarty is the man who threatened you?" Sherlock asked, his eyes becoming greyer, as if a storm brewed there.

A sob escaped Violet.

"Knew it!" Sherlock suddenly exclaimed, rising from his seat, a fist full of papers in hand. Violet only had a view of his trousers before he left the area, presumably to pace across the rug. She could still hear him, though, because he'd been speaking to her through his bluetooth earbuds, which he still wore. "Son of a mathematics professor," Sherlock recited in an undertone, "and a socialite—his mother was heiress to the Galway Tech toy company… Absent parents… No wonder he was raised by nannies… Attended Belvedere College… B.A. in Accounting and Finance from the Dublin City University; trainee at Moriarty & Young, his uncle's accounting firm in Manchester… provided operational accounting services to various agencies, TV networks and major studios. That's how he got a foot in the door of the entertainment industry. Obvious. Became Managing Director of Global Video Creation and Distribution at Delux Matchbox Films, a subsidiary of Etienne-Lumiere in London, then…"

"Sherlock…"

"Director, Business Affairs… hmm. But he's made a mistake," Sherlock, unseen, continued musing aloud. "He thinks we were purposefully investigating him. _That's_ his mistake."

"His mistake!" Violet repeated, now full of revulsion. "It's _my_ mistake! And Emily paid for it with her life!"

"Yes, but don't you see?" Sherlock replied, coming into view again as he bent in front of the computer screen. "He's fallible! He's not all-knowing and all-seeing. He's quite removed from the process. He doesn't know what's going on. Not as clever as he thinks. And I thought we'd need to drown out our conversation with your God-awful music. Probably unnecessary."

Did he even hear her? _Her_ mistake!

Sherlock moved away again, but this time he was silent. Violet could just imagine him, crossing the rug, fingertips steepled to his lips, occasionally stopping to rake his fingers irately through his curls, making his hair stick up at all angles.

Her heart continued to pound, but a sickening feeling spread throughout the rest of her body.

"It's my fault," she said, finally vocalising her fear.

A wave of revulsion engulfed her. Throwing off her headphones, Violet left the bed. She last caught sight of Sherlock appearing in front of the screen again, but she moved beside her bed so he couldn't see her. Soon enough, great sobs wracked her body as she held her head in her hands.

The music promised to bring the party to her, its relentlessly upbeat tempo attempting to mute the self-accusatory tune currently on repeat in her mind.

She did this. She had Emily killed by asking Sherlock to investigate all those loose ends. And for what? Her own career aspirations? How self-centred was that! It was nobody else's doing, but hers.

 _I killed Emily._

Violet lifted her head and dabbed at her eyes.

 _Tonight is the night_ , the music bid her. And then it suddenly ceased, a weighty silence of a second or two before a very familiar ring tone sounded on her phone and through the bluetooth speaker.

Sherlock's ringtone.

Violet gulped in air, steadying her sobs to a silent stream of tears. Instead of answering the phone, she resumed her position on the bed in front of her laptop and wiped away the last of her tears. Sherlock pressed end on the call he was making to her, and her phone continued its mix of club songs.

Reluctantly, Violet donned her headphones.

"It's not your fault," Sherlock said, leaning into the screen. "This is exactly what he wants. It's the power he wields over us. We can't let him do that."

"It's… too… late," Violet hiccupped.

"Violet. Listen to me. You're not responsible. Look, I'm sorry about your friend, Emma, but—"

"Emily!" Violet snapped.

Sherlock exhaled heavily.

"Sorry," he said, his tone more contrite. "Emily," he added gently. "But Moriarty is playing a game, one I'm not willing to play. Emily died because he had her killed, not you. _He_ made the decision. He gave the order. A man like James Moriarty would never get his hands dirty, but _he_ is responsible."

It sounded so odd to have Sherlock say Jim's name out loud. It was also strangely comforting—like a burden she was released from bearing.

"Jim," she heard herself say.

"Sorry?"

"He calls himself 'Jim'."

Sherlock slowly nodded, but Violet felt as if his thoughts were now a thousand miles away. She raked a hand down her face. The beginning of a headache made itself felt behind her eyes.

"Violet," Sherlock said. "I know this is hard right now, but I need to know exactly what Moriarty said to you when he met with you. Was it just the once? Were you on set? Did he ever meet you in your hotel? How long was he in Australia for? Anything and everything you've got."

Sherlock was just warming up. She could tell by the way his eyes were glistening.

Slowly, hesitatingly, until she felt considerably calmer, Violet told Sherlock about her final meeting with Jim Moriarty, purposefully omitting all the other meetings and conversations that pertained to Jim's control of her career. No mention of Jim's boast, "Honey, I'm _every_ studio," or that he had shaped her career, getting her the roles on _Regency Road_ , _Catherine Hilderness,_ and _The Rise of the Five_. She couldn't admit to that just yet. While Violet still had a career in the entertainment industry, it was best not to think about who was pulling the strings. And how angry would Sherlock be? He wouldn't leave Jim alone if he knew.

Violet faltered when she recounted the threat to end the lives of Emily, her dad, and Mandi—Jim's 'added incentive'. When she finished with Jim's comment about not telling Sherlock his identity so he could continue with his work, Sherlock leant back in his chair and stared into the distance.

"And so that's it," Violet said, feeling considerably lighter. "You can't do anything with this information. It's over."

Sherlock seemed to consider Violet's words for a few seconds before he slowly shook his head.

"No. It's not."

He suddenly rose from his seat again.

"Sherlock!"

Now and again Violet could see the flick of his suit jacket as he about-turned on the rug.

"Sherlock!" she said again. "We're not going through this again. You're not going to do anything about this."

God! He was so frustrating!

Violet yanked the headphones from her ears again. The music made her headache throb in time. Bowing her head, she pinched the bridge of her nose and closed her eyes.

"—let!"

Looking up, she saw Mandi peering around the door.

"Dinner?" her friend shouted over the music. Indicating the living area, Mandi added, "The food's just arrived."

Violet nodded.

"I'm just…" She gestured towards the laptop. "… talking to Sherlock. Hang on."

She grabbed her headphones and pulled them on as Mandi rolled her eyes and closed the door.

At that moment, Sherlock materialised on screen once more and took a seat in front of his computer.

"Violet," he said carefully, and her stomach dropped at the sight of his rounded eyes. She parted her lips, but no sound came out. "You know I love you very much," he said and Violet's heart jolted. "But we've had some difficulties over the last couple of days. Everyone's seen it. Our friends. Family. That is, the people who are the closest to us. Which makes this the perfect time for us to…" He gave her a wan smile. "For us to… break up."

Violet's skin prickled.

"What?" she asked faintly.

"Nobody would be surprised. And it's crucial that those who know us the best believe this is possible. That's it's actually happened. And we have the experience of travelling this road before, remember. And slowly, eventually, the rest of the world will learn of it too. Or sooner, if Mandi gets onto her tweeting friends."

"Sherlock—"

"Moriarty said it himself," Sherlock said, leaning closer. "You're my weakness. But I'm yours, too. Now I've just done an abominable thing. I crossed a line and had your friend killed. And I'm unapologetic about it. Collateral damage, as Mycroft suggested. There's no coming back from that. Of course you're going to dump me. Moriarty would believe that, if we're convincing."

"Sherlock—"

"So this is where you come in. You said you wanted to work on a case with me; this is it! The biggest and most dangerous case of your life. Our lives. You and I, Violet. We're going to fake our break up."

Violet took a sudden intake of breath when she made the realisation.

"You're an actor," Sherlock went on, "the most talented actor I know." A faint smile tugged at one corner of his mouth and his eyes shone with pride. "You have to be convincing, even when you think you're alone. As for me, I won't take our separation very well. I'm not going to be able to work for a while; at least as long as it takes for Moriarty to think I'm no longer a threat."

"Sherlock… I… can't…"

"You can. You're a dedicated actor. Look how much time and effort you put into preparing for a role, both physically and mentally. If anyone can do this, it's you. And this is to protect those you love. Don't you see? We can get one up on him!"

Sherlock's enthusiasm for taking on Jim Moriarty both shocked and thrilled her. But he had no idea that Jim was responsible for taking control of her career. How would he react if he knew? But if they separated…? Did that mean she couldn't see Sherlock; talk to him, phone him, message him… have any contact whatsoever?

Violet could feel a mild panic taking hold.

But then again… If she permitted Sherlock to take on Jim Moriarty as a case—as the case of a lifetime—and he brought about Jim's downfall, then Violet would be free of the horrid man. She'd have her career back. She'd have her life back.

"And when you get back to London," Sherlock continued, "You're going to have to move out. What do you think? It's crucial I have your full cooperation."

A tightness spread itself in her chest, but Sherlock, his brows raised, now fell silent, waiting for her response.

Violet's eyes stung, but her chest heaved as she drew in necessary oxygen. She had to be better than this. She couldn't fall apart, because if she decided to do this—live a false life to all who knew her—she would be facing the challenge alone.

She swallowed hard and said, "Let's do it."

#

 _ **Author's Note:**_

 _And there you have it: Break up, fake up! Please review. I love reading reactions!_


	19. The Press Will Turn, Sherlock

**Chapter 19 - The Press Will Turn, Sherlock**

 **CELEBRATS. NET**

 _THE LATEST IN CELEBRITY NEWS!_

Wednesday 13th November 2013

 _ **VIOLET HUNTER SPLITS**_

 _ **WITH BOYFRIEND**_

Violet Hunter is back on the market after splitting with her live-in boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes. Sources reveal that the _Rise of the Five_ star will move out of their central London flat upon her return to the UK. Hunter has been filming the _Anuket's Children_ sequel in Australia for the last two months. A friend of the star said conflicting work schedules and living on separate continents was to blame.

"A long distance relationship is too difficult to maintain," the source was quoted as saying.

Hunter collapsed on the set of the blockbuster only two days ago, but her rep has declined to comment on whether her condition was related to the break-up.

#

 **LowFatIceream. net**

 _Indulge in Entertainment Gossip without the calories!_

Wednesday 13th November 2013

 _ **RISE OF THE FIVE STAR NEWLY SINGLE**_

Violet Hunter and her forensic specialist boyfriend of 8 months have called it quits. A source revealed that they have decided to amicably separate. Sherlock Holmes, himself an internet celebrity amongst geeks for his science website, visited the star on the set of the _Anuket's Children_ sequel the previous week sparking rumours that their brief romance was in jeopardy.

We're sure Satis won't be single for long! She was spotted around Brisbane town, enjoying the sunshine with co-star and our favourite LowFatIceCream hunk, Joseph Irkhardt. Our Joe has also split from his model girlfriend paving the way for a blossoming romance between the Egyptian God and Goddess.

We can only hope, right?

#

 **SNAPX MAGAZINE**  
Friday 15th November 2013

 _ **VIOLET WAS MISERABLE!**_

A close friend of Violet Hunter revealed to Snapx that the unlikely couple had a heated relationship and that they regularly clashed over how to balance their relationship with their individual careers.

"Violet was often in tears," our source revealed. "Sherlock was quite jealous of the attention Violet was getting from fans, and of her friendships with co-stars."

Sherlock Holmes, a freelance detective for the Metropolitan Police, had frequent clashes with the press, reportedly cutting short Hunter's autograph signing with fans ahead of her interview on _The Late Show_ with Tevish Stewart. _The Late Show_ host, however, defended the detective in his opening monologue this week with a heartfelt comment, "I don't know what all the negativity is about. He's a good guy, but good guys don't always get the girl."

The _Regency Road_ beauty confided in a friend that "it was an emotional rollercoaster and I'm glad it's over."

Violet's rep said, "They're taking a break," while our source says, "They're done."

#

 **December 2013**

Sherlock heaved a sigh after depositing the final cardboard box on top of a much larger one. He straightened up and rolled his shoulders. Exerting himself for the last hour—hauling boxes containing Violet's belongings from her second floor flat to the entranceway of 221—had tightened his trapezius.

"I thought the moving men would do all that," Mrs Hudson said behind him, with a cluck of her tongue. "You'll do your back in."

"I'm fine," Sherlock swiftly replied, glancing around at his landlady. He noted she was carrying her handbag. For the first time all morning, he breathed out a relaxed breath. She was leaving as he had requested her to. "The less time they have to spend here…" he murmured.

But his insides fluttered at the thought of Violet's impending visit.

"I've got a good mind to stay here and give her what for," Mrs Hudson said, her hands assuming their no-nonsense position about her hips.

"That's really not necessary," Sherlock replied, hoping that was the end to it.

He surveyed the boxes, using his mind's eye to stocktake Violet's possessions in relation to the many and varied locations she usually stashed her things.

"You know, I've always had my reservations about that girl," Mrs Hudson volunteered, "Too flighty, I thought. And all those photos coming out of Australia. And there was that one time—"

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock puffed in exasperation. "I've said this before—it takes two to break up. Violet isn't the only one at fault."

He gave his landlady a meaningful look, hoping she'd take the hint and restrain herself from giving him a rundown of all Violet Hunter's shortcomings. His stomach twinged again.

"You know me," he went on. "Our separation shouldn't come as a surprise."

"You weren't the one carrying on with co-stars on the other side of the world."

Sherlock drew in a steadying breath.

"Neither was she."

Mrs Hudson drew her mouth into a thin line as she navigated around the stack of boxes.

"I'll be back at five," she said. "Will that give her enough time?"

"Ample."

"Perhaps you should shave," his landlady said as a parting shot before she headed for the front door.

Sherlock checked his watch. Forty-five minutes to go. He had plenty of time to freshen up— _not_ shave—have a cup of tea, and calm his nerves.

Calm his nerves?

Where did that come from?

Still, it had been three weeks since he'd last spoken to Violet. He didn't count the brief text exchanges over the last week, where they coordinated the removal of Violet's belongings. They'd been short. Curt. Well, somebody could have been monitoring.

Three weeks.

Three weeks since they'd plotted fooling the world into believing they were no longer a couple. The ensuing public interest had taken him by surprise. Paparazzi hovered outside his door. Why? Why was his reaction anyone's concern? But they'd been counting on such ripples of interest, hadn't they? If Moriarty didn't have spies close enough to know their relationship status, they'd make damn sure the news got to him the fastest way possible. Cue Violet's friends and entourage, and their collective propensity for tweeting and tumbling.

Sherlock had showered and was just donning his best dressing gown over his purple shirt and black trousers when he heard the front door slam shut. Glancing at the clock on the bedside table, he realised Violet was half an hour early. What if it was John, though? It would be just like the ex-army doctor to spoil the moment with an ill-timed visit.

The swift, light treads on the staircase told Sherlock otherwise.

He hastened to cross the room as her footsteps reached the landing outside the kitchen. Throwing open the kitchen door, his heart heaved in expectation. There was still a three percent chance his visitor was actually a client.

Violet's eyes shone, a smile at the ready, but it faltered when she saw the look of surprise on his face.

"Are we alone?" she asked.

"Yes," Sherlock rasped. He gave a light cough and attempted a second time. "Yes. It's just that you're thirty min—"

Violet lunged for him. There was no other word for it. Arms twined around his neck. Lips locked to his, stealing his breath. Sherlock automatically banded his arms hard around her, returning her kiss, deeply and thoroughly. He was lost in the taste and feel of her, the memory of which had tormented him for months.

When they drew back, a delicate flush coloured Violet's cheeks; she couldn't have looked more ravishing.

"You're earl—"

"We can't carry on with moving men about, can we?" Violet interjected, a darker intent flickering across her features. Taking Sherlock by the hand, Violet drew him towards his (their!) bedroom.

Sherlock would've been content to take their time. Half an hour could be drawn into an eternity when each kiss was whispered, every touch a hum of electricity. Their mutual arousal would be enticed rather than stolen, and their subsequent orgasms drawn back like the tide before a tsunami. But Violet's needs were restless and impatient. Pulses raced, clothing peeled back just enough for ease of access, the bed remaining fully made and completely empty.

Violet pulled Sherlock into her, her body pinned against the wall with Sherlock supporting her weight. It was desperate and ruthless and exquisite. He lathed the hollow of her throat, feeling her pulse hammering beneath his tongue, as he plunged again and again. The drugging heat of her aroused him beyond measure.

Violet demanded more, clutching at his curls. Sherlock swore as the urgency built with every thrust. Was this just a stolen moment, or did it signal the end for them? Sherlock rather hoped it was a new beginning, but each encounter from here on would have to be planned. Strategised. Perhaps the knowledge of this accounted for Violet's desperation as well.

Blood heated his skin until Violet half-cried, half-moaned. He knew he was close as Violet shuddered and gasped his name. He took her deeper, crushing his mouth down on hers. Emotions swirling, Sherlock sought his own release, encouraged by Violet tightening her legs around him. The response of his body was overpowering and desperate. Pleasure crested and swamped him, his heart wheeling, a strangled moan escaping him. He was spent.

Mind and body emptied, Sherlock gently lowered Violet to the floor.

"Hello," he whispered, pressing a soft kiss to Violet's upturned mouth. "Nice of you to drop by."

#

Lying in Sherlock's bed, Violet skimmed her fingers over his cheek, taking a moment to register the uncharacteristic terrain.

"I like this," she murmured.

Sherlock hummed in acknowledgement.

"When was the last time you shaved?" she probed.

Sherlock blinked towards the ceiling, before giving his reply.

"The morning after we broke up." He took Violet's roaming hand and steered it away from his stubbly jawline. "Seemed like a good trigger," he added. After pressing a soft kiss to her hand, he laid it to rest on his chest. "I am keeping it trim, though," he said, smoothing a thumb and forefinger over his goatee-in-progress.

"You look positively broken," Violet said with a small chuckle. Leaning up onto elbows, she added, "You're taking method acting to a new level."

"I have no idea what that is."

"So how far have you progressed on the case?"

Sherlock clenched his jaw, before two creases appeared between his brows.

"What case?" he asked, his focus remaining on the ceiling.

Violet's heart tripped and her jaw slackened.

"Our case," she replied. "Jim Moriarty." She almost couldn't say the name without her voice breaking.

"Yes," Sherlock said with a sigh. He closed his eyes, wrinkling his brow, before smoothing two fingers over it as if something pained him.

Violet slowly sat up.

"What does that mean?" she asked. "Have you found anything? Have you got something to use against him? Anything… evidence… witnesses… something clever to convict him?" Violet could feel her throat constricting, causing her voice to pitch higher.

Sherlock opened his eyes and wearily cast them at Violet.

"This is going to take some time," he said.

Striving to maintain an even tone, Violet asked, "How much time?"

"More than a couple of weeks."

The air stilled around her. More than a couple of weeks! They'd already had three weeks. What was going on! Violet could feel panic rising like bile.

"Meaning… what?"

Sherlock reached for her, but Violet folded her arms, leaving him to lightly pat her thigh instead.

"First I need to establish to the outside world that I'm not in any position to go after criminal masterminds. To James Moriarty, I can't be seen to pose a threat any more. I told you this."

"And then what?"

"And then…" Sherlock withdrew his hand and resumed his thoughtful repose gazing upwards. "… then I need to find Irene Adler."

"Jesus," Violet said under her breath. She slid from the bed. Scrambling to find the clothes she'd discarded, she could feel the heat continuing to rise in her cheeks. "I… thought…" she began.

Behind her, she heard Sherlock also rise from the bed and gather his own clothing.

"You thought what?" he asked.

She thought what would follow their moment of intimacy would be Sherlock telling her how close he'd come to solving this case, if only he could find one more piece of the puzzle. But now she had the crushing realisation he _hadn't even started,_ and their brief time together only served as an intermission for the pantomime her life had become.

"I thought…" she began, smoothing out her shirt, "you'd have it solved by now. Or at least close to solving it. I didn't think I'd actually have to move out."

Sherlock paused tucking in his shirt.

"Your things are packed in boxes," he said. "You've booked the removers."

"I just didn't think…" Violet said, raking a hand through her hair. "I thought it wouldn't be for long… that we were nearly at the end. You're talking as if it's only the beginning."

"Violet. It _is_ only the beginning. You _are_ moving out. We've got a long way to go yet."

Sherlock turned from her as he finished tucking in his shirt tails then zipped his trousers.

Violet felt as if the world was spiralling out of control. The last three weeks had been torture for her. The only light at the end of the tunnel was _today_ —getting to visit Sherlock in Baker Street. She'd thought their fake breakup was nearing an end. This wasn't right.

"I can't take any more of this," she said, more to herself than Sherlock. "I feel as if I'm the only person living in the real world. Everybody else exists in a theme park."

She bowed her head to her hand and shuddered out a breath, attempting to stymy the inevitable flow of tears.

"You're busy working…" she heard Sherlock say as he obviously approached her. "…doing your filming thing. You're as busy as you ever were." He laid light hands about her shoulders.

Shrugging out of his hold, Violet snapped, "But how much control do I have over my own—"

She stopped abruptly and searched Sherlock's eyes. Not a flicker of realisation. She hadn't let the cat out of the bag. Sherlock couldn't know that Jim had been… or still was… at the helm of her career. She hadn't heard anything more from the man since their last meeting in Australia, but that didn't mean the next role she was offered wasn't something Jim had engineered.

"They've booked p-press junkets for next year," she scrambled to say. "And _Improbity's_ running over Christmas. I have to go to Birmingham for a charity thing. My schedule's full. If I can't ever see you in my down time, I'm on my own. I just don't know how I'm going to…" She huffed out an irate breath and turned from Sherlock. She had expected him to come up behind and slide his arms around her. Tell her it was all going to be okay. Instead, all she heard was a tut.

Sherlock was pacing, as much as he was able to in the tiny confines of his bedroom. But this was a good sign, wasn't it? It meant he was trying to solve something. Violet held her breath, waiting for a brilliant deduction.

"You clearly need a confidante," he said, stopping mid-pace.

Violet sighed. This was his solution? There was no way she was letting Mandi know that she and Sherlock were still dating. That it had all been a ruse. The woman would explode with rage!

"Not really. I—"

"Someone we both trust," Sherlock went on. Turning from her, he murmured, "He's the only one who could do it. He would never betray you."

He?

"What?" Violet asked. "Who are you talking about?"

Sherlock suddenly stalked towards Violet, startling her in the process.

"He'd jump at the chance. He's still in love with you, but he'll pretend he's doing it because you're friends," he said, grasping her arms. "And I'd be satisfied, knowing someone's ensuring your safety."

"I-I don't need—"

"We've already worked together, and there's no way he'd let the idiots up north know that. It'd be suicide on his part, so he's completely in our circle of trust."

"Sherlock… who…"

"Dan!" Sherlock said, his eyes alight. "Dan Corlionne! He can be your new boyfriend!"

#

 **LowFatIcecream. net**

 _Indulge in Entertainment Gossip without the calories!_

Saturday 14th December 2013

 _ **VIOLET SNOGS IN NIGHTCLUB!**_

Violet Hunter has been romantically linked with a Manchester businessman. The pair were seen having dinner together and later spotted holding hands at an inner city nightclub.

They were reportedly getting steamy in a private room at the club, which is managed by the businessman.

A rep for Hunter declined to comment.

#

 **SNAPX MAGAZINE**  
Monday 16th December 2013

 _ **VIOLET MOVES ON!**_

Rumours are spreading that the _Improbity_ starlet has a new boyfriend after she was seen in the company of a Manchester nightclub manager. A source close to Violet Hunter has said, "The relationship is very new. They are hanging out a lot together and just enjoying each other's company."

Sources say she was seen getting comfy with the nightclub manager over the weekend. More than likely Hunter is just letting her hair down after ending her relationship with high-profile freelance detective with the London Metropolitan Police, Sherlock Holmes.

Violet Hunter is currently filming a romantic thriller with _Ashendorf_ actor Alex Breville. Her previous film, _Anuket's Children: The Rise of the Five_ is currently in post-production.

#

 **HOT NOW MAGAZINE**  
Wednesday 18th December 2013

 _ **VIOLET HAS A NEW BEAU**_  
 _ **IN TIME FOR CHRISTMAS**_

"They've known each other for years and have only now started going on date-like activities," a source close to the _Rise of the Five_ star has told us.

Fans have tweeted that they sat in the same train as the pair who were commuting between Birmingham and London. "They mostly spent time on their own electronic devices and now and then they would share a kiss," one observer posted on their Tumblr site.

Dan Corlionne, a nightclub manager from Manchester, is the latest man in Violet Hunter's life. She recently split with her boyfriend, Sherlock Holmes, ending their year long on-again off-again relationship when rumours surfaced about an alleged affair with her Rise of the Five co-star, Joseph Irkhardt.

Hunter has refused to comment on her new beau, stating, "The more you share your relationship with the world, the less special it becomes."

Sources who spotted the new couple in a London restaurant said, "The couple were very affectionate and were constantly flirting. They looked like they were really into one another."

Corlionne admitted to a friend that they are officially dating.

Hunter was recently photographed leaving her inner London flat, looking radiant and smiling for photographers as she headed off to spend quality time with her new beau. A new love just in time for Christmas!

#


	20. A Shoulder to Cry On

**Chapter 20 - A Shoulder to Cry On**

Raindrops pelted the passenger window, skewing the lights of the theatre. Beside her, Dan gave a light cough. He was tugging at his tie again. Violet tutted and reached for it.

"Don't touch it," she said, pulling the knot tighter.

"We are just watching a flick, yeah?" he said. "Could we not wear jeans?"

Violet eased back into her seat and resumed her scan through the limousine windows. This was the third time Danny had made that comment. It wasn't funny after his second attempt.

At times like this, it would be Violet who needed reassurance—a warm smile, a steady hand and encouraging words from Sherlock. Why did she now have to ease someone else's discomfort?

Violet exhaled a slow, deep breath, reminding herself to lighten up. Dan was doing her an enormous favour. She had to cut him some slack.

"Sorry," she said, forcing a grim smile to her face. She reached for his hand and gave it a light squeeze. "It's a pain, I know."

"No, s'okay," he said, with a light chuckle. "Just 'aving a laugh."

Violet wished she could 'just have a laugh'. The situation in which she now found herself was far from comical. Her answer had been a resounding no, when Sherlock suggested Dan Corlionne for Violet's pretend boyfriend.

"Oh, my God, no! What are you talking about?" had been Violet's panicked reply.

"Don't you see—it's perfect!" Sherlock said, his eyes glistening. "You'll be letting the world know you've definitely moved on! And we're adding a security detail to the bargain."

Violet shook her head, too stunned by the suggestion that Dan—her ex's right-hand man—was the "bargain" to whom Sherlock was referring.

"You don't have to decide now," Sherlock went on. "I'll talk to Dan. When he rings you and suggests coffee, you can say yes or no then."

The moving men arrived, prompting no further discussion. The couple embraced out of sight of prying eyes, one final time—a prolonged hug Violet wasn't keen on ending—before she was thrust back into her alternate universe.

When Danny did ring at the end of the week, Violet didn't even have the chance to ignore the call to give herself further time to think. Her phone sat on the sidetable in the tiny living room of her new flat in Chelsea. Mandi snatched it up, discovered it was Dan, and spent a few minutes flirting with the man before handing the phone over. By that time, Violet couldn't say she was busy or not in. Mandi had already filled Dan in on her whereabouts.

"Er… so… how about coffee?" Dan had rasped without pre-amble. He was clearly more nervous than she was. But her heart sank. There had still been a chance Sherlock hadn't managed to approach the Mancunian nightclub manager, and that Dan was just ringing for one of his regular chats.

"It's… it's a bad idea," Violet practically whispered into the phone, turning from Mandi. "I'll talk to you later." She swiftly ended the call.

And then her insides twisted.

 _He knew._

Only three people now knew Violet and Sherlock's break up was false. Here was someone she could confide in, on a regular basis! The world had opened up for her, just a little.

"What's that about?" Mandi had asked, but Violet was already dialling Danny's number.

Before he could speak, Violet gushed, "I've no idea what my schedule's like. Mandi takes care of it. Here she is. She can squeeze you in somewhere."

Violet held out the phone to her P.A. and bid her to schedule time for coffee with Dan. Mandi beamed. Violet felt ill.

Their first "date" didn't start off very well. In an exquisite tea room Violet sat across from Danny, her arms folded, her expression pale and drawn.

But when Dan leant forward, his eyes wide and earnest, and said, "Yeah, I'm sorry. This is shite, innit?" Violet's heart lurched. He cared. He was on her side. She didn't have to be alone. It was all going to be okay.

And they chatted for an hour, over tea and Coronation Chicken sandwiches about all manner of things, except the fact that they were going to pretend to be a couple. And definitely not the fact that they once had a one night stand at the end of her relationship with Jake.

Dan's parting words that afternoon, had been, "I 'ave-ta check with Jake first. Get 'is okay. Yeah?" What followed was two days of silent dread while Danny headed north to check with her ex-boyfriend. Not Sherlock Holmes, the jealous, controlling Insulting Detective (Mandi's words); not Nicholas McIntyre, the alcoholic photographer or even Damian Goulburn-Hurst, the uptight lawyer; but Jacob Venucci, the cocaine-addicted, Manchester businessman who had ties to organised crime, and more specifically—horrifically—Jim Moriarty. That ex.

But this was something Dan had negotiated with Sherlock, apparently: that he would only go ahead with dating Violet Hunter if Jake knew first. Not the truth about the fake breakup, but that Dan was thinking of asking her out on a proper date. He'd say they'd kept in contact when Dan moved to London to manage the Kabuki Pirates nightclub that Jake owned. It was sort of true.

Violet was on set, in-between takes, covered in blood made out of (amongst other things) chocolate syrup and food colouring, when Dan called her. Jake was okay, he said. Bit silent. Violet knew that silence. It could go one of two ways. But Jake finally told Dan, "Well, you're better than that Sherlock Holmes c—". Dan had cut himself off there, but Violet could fill in the expletive. Then Jake had finished with, "But if you hurt her…"

Yes, they knew what would come next. Bottom of the Mersey, and all that.

Dating Dan had turned out to be surprisingly easy. They continued their usual conversations over coffee, or dinner, followed by a stint in Kabuki's and other clubs. The only tricky bit was the kissing. But Violet kept it as neutral as she could, concentrating on how it looked to observers on the outside, rather than how it felt on the inside. It was just a role, after all, and she had already snogged Alex Breville on the set of _Improbity_ that week, anyway.

Inside the limousine, Dan reached for her hand.

"Y'all right, Vi?" he asked, as the vehicle slowed to a crawl.

Violet nodded in silence, sat up taller, and waited for the valet to open her door to the red carpet.

#

"Sherlock."

Sherlock dragged his eyes from the newspaper article. Evidentally John was asking him something. He lifted a brow, bidding his ex-flatmate to repeat the question.

"Do you want to come to ours for Christmas?" John asked, discomfort written all over his face.

"No. Thank you."

Sherlock returned his gaze to the photo that accompanied the article.

 _Violet Hunter Attends Ashendorf Premiere With New Beau_

He could just imagine Mandi's comment: "Oh, look, he's smiling!"

Good on you, Corlionne.

Behind him, John Watson cleared his throat. The man kept thinking of new things to say, probably in an attempt to distract Sherlock from the paper.

"You know… we all care about you."

Sherlock tutted, grabbed the paper and dropped down into his armchair.

"And we… we don't think you should be alone for Christmas," John went on. "Mrs Hudson—"

"It's fine," Sherlock said, lowering the paper to his lap and meeting John's gaze. "I'll be at my parents'. I'm sure they'll ply me with more than enough _love_ and _concern_."

John sighed heavily.

"You look like shit. Can I just say that?"

"You're asking permission to make a comment you've already made?"

"Look, Sherlock." John wearily sank down into his old chair. _Violet's_ chair. "Mate." John appeared to chew on his next words before he spoke again. "We've all been through this."

"You've all dated an actress and had your breakup splashed across every newspaper in the country?"

"No," John said, shaking his head vigorously. He threaded his fingers together, in preparation for choosing his words carefully, Sherlock deduced. "Had our h-hearts… broken."

Sherlock lifted the paper again. This was a stupid and pointless conversation. Even by John Watson's standards.

"You're not…" John continued, trailing off at just the right moment. Sherlock let the unspoken words " _on anything?_ " hang in the air. "Sherlock."

Sherlock irately dropped the paper once more.

"Would you like to take a urine sample, Doctor Watson?"

"Do you think I need to?"

Standing up and dropping the newspaper onto his vacated seat, Sherlock gestured towards the bathroom.

"Let's go then. You'll have to supervise, of course. I could've stolen a sample from a corpse and kept it frozen for just this purpose."

John rose from his chair as well, saying, "You do know the composition would be—"

"Yes, I do, John. It was a joke. I'm trying to _lighten the mood_. So… ceramic tea cup or pyrex beaker? Or did you bring a sample jar of your own?"

Raising his hands in protest, John replied, "I'm not getting you to pee in a jar, okay? I just want you to know we all care about you and want to help in some way. The last thing we want is you turning to… you know."

Sherlock crossed the living room rug, his dressing gown billowing behind him. He flopped onto the sofa with an audible sigh.

"No cases?" John asked, stooping to pick up the discarded newspaper. Sherlock gestured feebly towards his laptop. "What about the Chenoa Burton case?"

"Boring."

John paused in their discussion while he, too, glanced at the article featuring Violet and Dan attending her _Improbity_ co-star's movie premiere. Two photos featured Violet on the red carpet—one with Dan, the other with actor Alex Breville.

"I had her under surveillance," Sherlock added, assuming his customary position with his hands steepled to his lips. "Chenoa Burton. So I could reassure her she wasn't being followed. At least she's safe, even if I'm not making progress on her case."

Approaching the coffee table, John asked, "So you're not going to follow up on the theory Stuart Jire was set up? That he wasn't the one who attacked her?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and intoned, "Not at the moment. No."

"What about Mary's theory?"

Sherlock's eyes snapped open.

"What theory?"

"That Lauren Myrtle, Daisy Firmington and Violet all look the same."

Sherlock frowned. He recalled the photos they had spread over Mrs Hudson's coffee table during the time Violet was in Australia, and Irene Adler occupied her room upstairs.

"And I said, what's that got to do with the attack on Chenoa Burton?"

"Stuart Jire," John answered. "He admitted to attacking Lauren, way back when. He's the common link."

"Between Lauren and Chenoa. How does Daisy Firmington even feature? And my girlfriend, for that matter?"

The air stilled in the wake of his words.

 _My girlfriend_.

Idiot!

As John gave a small cough to cover up his best friend's gaffe, Sherlock sat up, swivelled his feet to the floor and scrubbed at his hair.

"Is Mary pregnant?" he asked. With his head still bowed, he heard John suck in his breath. "Because that would explain why she's come up with such outlandish, irrelevant observations."

"Yeah, charming," John commented. "I won't tell Mary that. And no. We're not pregnant."

Sherlock gave John a wry smile.

"Well, I know _you're_ not pregnant."

"It's an expression."

Sherlock took in his ex-flatmate from head to toe—the bags underneath his eyes, the down-turned lines about his mouth—and he suddenly felt a twinge of guilt.

"Don't worry about me, John," he said, rising from the sofa. "I've merely returned to my default state. Unsociable and alone. I'll be out and about, poking at bodies in the mortuary in no time."

"You really think you deserve to be alone?" John asked.

Sherlock moved towards the living room door as he spoke.

"I didn't say I deserved it." Turning, he added, "I put a case before the safety of Violet's friends, resulting in one of their deaths. I clearly have my priorities all wrong. Violet was right to move on." Sherlock stood beside the door, but avoided John's gaze on purpose. "She's better off without me."

John emitted a tiny tut.

"I still don't understand what happened."

Holding onto the door, Sherlock gestured towards the landing.

"I made an abominable error of judgement. But I'll be fine. Tell Molly to sharpen her bone saw. Thank you for checking in on me."

With an imperceptible nod, John bade Sherlock a farewell, although his slow treads on the staircase told Sherlock he was reluctant to leave the Consulting Detective alone. Closing the door, Sherlock looked about him. Now… what was he up to before the well-meaning doctor made his house call?

Ah, yes. The file Mycroft's people had started on James Moriarty.

Dejected and forlorn as he appeared to be, Sherlock Holmes was definitely not idle.

#

Sherlock reached for his single malt whisky, took a sip and leant back into the crimson velvet wing chair.

The accessories room in the underground vault known as The Cave of Trevor & Vernet, with its dark wood panelling, lush carpet and soft downlights, transported him back to yesteryear, a time when he sought to escape the world by hiding in a series of boltholes. The Savile Row studio had been his favourite.

Back then, Victor Trevor would ply him with both gossip and the drug of his choice. Nowadays, Sherlock favoured silence and a cup of Earl Grey. But today was an illusion, like all his other actions of late, hence the top-shelf whisky.

Sherlock checked his watch. Corlionne was late. His fitting was probably taking a while. Although, knowing Victor Trevor's loyalty to his secret business partner—Altamont Vernet, Sherlock's alter-ego—the tailor was probably making Dan's experience an uncomfortable one.

Sherlock heard muffled voices and footsteps approaching. Thank Christ for that.

He straightened up, quickly schooling his features into a neutral expression, before the door swung inwards.

"Sorry, old chap," Victor was saying to Dan in his clipped, nasal tone. He gestured for Dan to precede him into the room. "I'm under strict instructions. VIP and all that."

Violet Hunter's "current boyfriend" stopped short, taking in the sole occupant of the room, the Consulting Detective, and his jaw visibly slackened.

"Mr Corlionne," Sherlock said, his voice pitched at an ominous level.

Victor hastily pulled the door shut, leaving the two men alone.

Dan relaxed, his expression immediately softening as Sherlock rose from his seat.

"Y'all right, Sherlock?" he said, extending his hand.

Sherlock returned the man's handshake, answering, "Dan," with a brisk nod. "Lock it, would you?" the detective bid his guest, indicating the door with a tilt of his head. "Whisky?"

Dan's gaze dropped to the bottle Sherlock had plucked from the side cabinet.

"Why not, yeah. Balvenie 40! So this is where they're hiding the good stuff!"

Dan latched the door, then walked slowly around the small room, his eyes roaming the ornate cabinets filled with neckties, bowties, cufflinks, pocket squares, watches and socks.

"Pretty sure they gave me a watered down Old Crow," he said conversationally. "As if I wouldn't notice. I run a fucking bar! I know how to water down drinks. Oh, this'll set you back. Look at that." Dan stopped in front of the watch cabinet and gave a low whistle.

"And how was it then," Sherlock asked. "Your… fitting?"

"Well, not sure, really," Dan said, rubbing the back of his neck. "Feel like one of those pin things, to be honest."

"Pin cushion?" Sherlock prompted, handing Dan his drink.

"Cheers." Dan gulped down a sip. "Yeah, pin cushion. They were stickin' me here, there and everywhere, yeah? All this for a fucking charity dinner thing. Don't know how you put up with it all."

Sherlock gave him a rueful smile. He had been correct in his deduction. Victor Trevor wasn't impressed that Violet Hunter had booked her "new beau" into the studio for a fitting. Sherlock's idea, naturally. They needed a meeting place for their first check-in, he and Dan, and the below ground exclusive fitting rooms on Savile Row were among the most discreet locations Sherlock harboured. Of course, Victor wasn't to know that Sherlock Holmes and Dan Corlionne were actually conspiring together. The story went that Sherlock had "got wind" Mr Corlionne had an appointment, so the Consulting Detective requested time and privacy to have words with the man. Victor's face had turned beet red at the thought of what could go down on his premises. But as with all things relating to Sherlock Holmes, the detective could trust his tailor to keep his confidence.

"Welcome to my world," Sherlock said to Dan, with a touch of forced humour. He wasn't really in the mood for small talk, though. "How is she?" he finally asked.

"Ah… y'know… crazy busy, yeah. Can't believe how much she has to do… running around…chatting to this person and that, getting photographed. Know what I mean? Apart from shooting that film, there's interviews… and… yeah, just a load of wank, really."

Dan pulled out his phone and thumbed the screen.

"Our Mand has given me her calendar, yeah. So I've got access. I know where she's meant to be at all times."

Sherlock bristled at the epithet Dan had spoken regarding Violet's BFF. _Our Mand_.

"Yes, but…" Sherlock cut in. "… _how_ is she?"

Dan furrowed his brow, taking a moment to consider Sherlock's question. He pocketed his phone, then ran a hand through his dark blond hair.

"She's not happy. But why would she be? I asked her to Sheffield for Christmas. Me sister's there, yeah? Loadsa kids. Very festive. And she weren't having none of it."

Sherlock clenched his jaw at Dan's use of the double negative.

"She said she'd celebrate it with her dad," Dan went on. "To be honest, I think she expected this to be over by Christmas, yeah? Spend it with your fine self." Dan gestured towards Sherlock with his drink. "So I'll be up north, if that's all right. I figured her dad's place is as secure as any. That all right then? Just for a couple of days."

"No, that's… that's fine."

None of this sat right with Sherlock. Violet's unhappiness weighed heavily inside him like the river Thames flooding a bloated corpse.

"I'll be in the Home Counties anyway," he offered. "Parents," he said, with a half eye roll and Dan laughed. "I'll try to see her before then," Sherlock added a little more soberly. Dan nodded. "But don't tell her. I… I don't want her to get her hopes up, and if something happens and I can't make it…"

"Yeah, she'll be on the warpath," Dan finished for him. "What a temper, yeah? She keeps having rows with our Mand." Sherlock's stomach churned once more and he drained the last of his whisky while Danny enlightened him as to the nature of Violet and her P.A.'s arguments—mostly involving public appearances Violet loathed to make, and occasionally when it pertained to "items of a personal nature." Sherlock read between the lines. They'd argued over Mandi making snide remarks about the ex-boyfriend, most likely.

"One night I was watching telly," Dan went on, "and suddenly this shoe comes outta nowhere. A trainer! Right by me 'ead! It hits the corner of the screen, yeah, and there's herself marching back to her room without a word. The next morning, right, I'm trying to watch Brekky TV…"

Sherlock tuned out. Thoughts of "the next morning" echoed through his head. That meant Corlionne had stayed the night. The man had _slept over_. Sherlock drew in a steadying breath. Although, possibly on the sofa, he told himself. It was just an illusion after all.

"… and now there's this purple smudge permanently on the screen, yeah."

"Fascinating."

"So, I take her out for coffee, right, coz she's not exactly chirpy in the mornings…"

 _In the mornings_.

Sherlock could feel his blood beginning to boil. More than one night over?

Busying himself pouring another shot of whisky, Sherlock let the rest of Dan's anecdote wash over him. He didn't know why this was bothering him all of a sudden. _He_ created this situation. It was his fucking idea. To give Violet a confidant. To show Moriarty she'd moved on. A boyfriend and a security detail rolled into one. He knew the couple had to kiss in public. Sherlock had watched Violet lock lips with Spencer Munro on stage night after night! And now there was this romantic movie—with simulated sex scenes—she was shooting with Alex Breville. Mr Huggy! These did not bother Sherlock, so why this thing with Dan?

"Then outta the blue, right, she says 'Hertz Gleitzman is a cunt!' I almost choke on me hash brown…"

Is it because Violet and Dan actually had sex once?

"And then I realise, yeah, he's the bloke what was on the telly the night before. Hollywood big-shot being interviewed, y'know, before he died."

Dan, as Jake's right hand, had always been present when Violet and Jake were in a relationship.

"And y'know how she does that thing, stirring her coffee with a teaspoon and then sipping from the spoon…"

So whenever she was upset by something Jake had done, Dan was right there, offering a shoulder… and then a penis… to cry on.

"Y'know what I mean?"

"Yes, sounds typical of Violet," Sherlock agreed, having no idea how Dan's story had concluded.

"All right, then," Dan finally said, finishing his own drink. "Top notch, that was. We sell the Twelve." He handed Sherlock his empty glass. "Not as smooth as this, though, yeah? Only the best for the VIP."

"Wouldn't have it any other way," Sherlock deadpanned.

"You'll have to come to the club and sample the Glenfiddich."

"Probably not a good idea."

"Oh… yeah, right!" Dan laughed.

Sherlock had, in fact, sampled the Glenfiddich, after he and Violet had broken up the first time, and he had regularly visited the Kabuki Pirates nightclub in the hope of bumping into her. A visit to Kabuki's when the manager was fucking his ex-girlfriend over morning coffee was not a good idea.

"So… ah… should I rough meself up a bit?" Dan asked, tugging lightly at one of his jacket lapels.

"No need," Sherlock replied smoothly. "It would be unlike me to resort to physical violence during meetings of this nature."

"No. You're likely to come off second best," Dan said, with a chuckle. "Let's keep this realistic, yeah?"

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock calculated seven ways in which he could incapacitate the nightclub manager, one of them involving slamming his head into the tie cabinet, and wrapping a crimson silk number around the man's throat. Victor wouldn't approve. And neither would Violet.

"Yes. Realistic," Sherlock echoed.

"So… ah…" Dan began again, and for the first time since the start of the meeting, he appeared uneasy. "She'll be wanting an update on the case."

Sherlock's skin prickled. The case, for fuck's sake. He'd found nothing while scrutinising the British Government's rather slim file on James Moriarty. And there was no sign of Irene Adler either. To gain further data on either party, the detective would have to bring his brother into his confidence. And that simply was not going to happen.

"Tell her I'm on to something," he answered Dan.

Danny's expression brightened, as if he was pleased he could deliver good news to Violet. He straightened up and considered the door for a moment. Sherlock had the impression the young man was steeling himself for his moment in the spotlight. It wouldn't surprise the detective if Violet had allowed Dan to visit her on set, and he'd gained insight into what actor's did to prepare for their next scene.

Dan threw open the door and stormed from the room. Victor, who was carrying design books across the floor, visibly jumped.

"Yeah, thanks a fucking bunch!" Dan snapped at the tailor. "And you can stick your fucking vented jacket up your fucking arse!"

Sherlock closed the door as Dan stomped up the metal staircase to the studio shopfront at street level.

For the upcoming _charity-do_ , Sherlock thought, it looked like Daniel Corlionne would have to settle for an off-the-rack number from Primark.

#


	21. A Friendly Warning, My Dear

**Chapter 21 - A Friendly Warning, My Dear**

"Remember the mulled wine? …while we were singing carols, then we had that Baileys…"

"Yeah, Mandi, I get it, but this is the—"

"The first year since you were a kid, yeah, that you're celebrating together. You and y'dad. Lovely."

Mandi's sincerity, as she tapped away at her phone, sounded as false as her newly manicured fingernails, Violet mused. Moving the artisan cheddar from the Paxton & Larner hamper to the pantry, Violet thought about the upcoming festive season.

It wasn't that she didn't appreciate her best friend's invitation to celebrate Christmas with the Doniellson family—spending the chilly, sodden evenings at the Manchester Christmas markets like they used to—but the actress was adamant she would do Christmas her own way this year. And that was to avoid everyone else's domestic situation. A Christmas-do in Sheffield with Danny, his sister and her kids? Doubly so.

"Did they deliver the wine?" Violet asked, her chest tightening in a last minute panic.

Mandi gestured towards the box by the front door, and Violet let out a deep exhale.

"Don't know why you didn't get all this delivered straight to your dad's," Mandi remarked.

"Because…" Violet began, crossing the room to retrieve the wine so she could think up a suitable reason. "…because I like to arrive bearing gifts, rather than showing up empty handed."

Mandi's phone pinged, and she rose from her stool by the counter.

"I'm off," she said. "Christmas Eve, and they change your bloody call sheets."

"I don't have to be anywhere until the third," Violet replied, meeting Mandi by the front door. "So it doesn't really matter if it's a ten o'clock or a two o'clock start."

With the sigh of one who had been greatly inconvenienced, the redhead gathered Violet up in a tight hug.

"Give him me best, yeah—y'dad."

"I will," Violet murmured. She wished her friend a Happy Christmas and promised to call her on Christmas night.

Once the front door clicked shut, Violet revelled in the stillness of the air. It felt like the first deep breath she'd taken all week. She crossed the floor back to the kitchen, grabbed a serrated knife from the block and slid it underneath the packing tape that had sealed the box of wines shut.

Admiring the first bottle, she mentally labelled it _Christmas Eve,_ then methodically deposited it onto the kitchen counter. _A nice choice for tonight._ _And, oh_ … Taking the next two bottles by the neck and scrutinising their labels in studious appreciation, she designated them _Christmas Day #1 and #2_. Because why not.

Grabbing the box by the edge, Violet went to drop it to the floor when she noticed it still carried some weight. Peering inside, she realised another bottle nestled within. Did Mandi order the box of four, then, instead of three? Violet was sure she stipulated three in the end.

"Hello," she said, admiring the stowaway Merlot. _Boxing Day_ , she assigned it with a self-satisfied half-smile. "And how did you get in here?"

"Through the bedroom window," came the warm reply.

Violet gasped and spun around.

"Sorry. I thought you were talking to me," Sherlock said, pulling a black, knitted beanie from his head, his curls escaping their confinement, as he slowly approached her.

Violet stood momentarily transfixed by the man she loved, who was dressed as if he'd gone head to head with a homeless person and had lost in a spectacular fashion. But his eyes sparkled and his mouth held the beginnings of a smile.

In two steps, they were embracing. Violet did her best to hold it all in as the warmth of Sherlock's body spread through her. But… his timing. Was everyone in her life going to stop by and wish her a Happy Christmas before going on their merry way? Talk about rubbing it in!

Violet pulled back.

"We've only got a minute," she said.

"A minute?"

She dropped her gaze and forced herself to ease out of Sherlock's embrace—his comforting hold.

"Yes. I'm supposed to be at my dad's."

She busied herself putting the wine bottles back into their box. She felt, rather than heard, Sherlock coming up behind her.

"You've just unpacked those."

"I was checking them. But I'm taking them to dad's."

"Violet."

"And I've got cheese and things…"

She waved vaguely in the direction of the pantry.

"Violet."

Forcing a cheery air to her voice, she added, "And you're off to your parents, Danny said. Sounds… lovely."

"Violet."

Sherlock finally put his hands on Violet's shoulders and gently turned her around.

"You and I both know we're not going anywhere."

Violet wrinkled her forehead.

"I can't cancel on my dad at the last minute," she said. "It's Christmas Eve!"

Sherlock shook his head lightly.

"No. There's no need. You told Dan you were spending Christmas with your dad, knowing full well this information would get back to me. It was code, and I cracked it." Puzzled, Violet deepened her frown, but Sherlock's mouth eased into a smile, his eyes shining in admiration. "You once told me your dad doesn't like spending time with you," he went on, "and there's no way he'd celebrate Christmas. In fact, you said, you wouldn't be surprised if he ended up in India. Well, a cursory glance at the passenger manifest of BA143 to New Delhi this morning reveals that one Gregory Oakes was seated in K2. A First Class seat, obviously. Looks like…" Sherlock released his hold on Violet to glance at his watch. "… he arrived at Indira Gandhi International airport thirty minutes ago. I'd hazard a guess—and I never guess—he's still in customs." Sherlock straightened up and said, "So I received your message loud and clear, and here I am. Clever girl."

Violet blinked in the wake of Sherlock's deduction. How did he…?

She studied his eyes; they were glistening with pride. For what? For who? Her?

There was only one person who was clever in this room, and it wasn't Violet Hunter. Sherlock had correctly deduced Violet lied about her plans to spend Christmas with her dad, but it wasn't because she thought Sherlock would know what that meant or that he'd even hear about it in time. It was to fool everyone else. She had already assumed there was no way she and Sherlock could celebrate Christmas together, so she preferred to spend Christmas alone. All the Happy Families could fuck off. But she couldn't make that confession to Sherlock: to admit she'd rather wallow in her own misery, anaesthetising the pain with carefully selected red wines, hating the world for having the audacity to celebrate and be merry when the world was actually shite and full of psychopaths.

Her very own personal psychopath had just visited her on set a couple of days ago.

Violet had shivered in feverish excitement as Natalia, from wardrobe, wrapped a dressing gown around her. A subdued murmur had washed over the closed set with relieved humour sprinkled about. The director of _Improbity_ , Deborah Marshall, conducted the day's post-mortem, finishing with a "Well done, Hunter, Breville!" to smatterings of applause.

Violet's whole body screamed with exhaustion, yet she felt elated. She'd just finished her first ever proper sex scene! A few embarrassed giggles here and there—it was like choreographing a trapeze act, half-naked—but other than that, it was all fine. And she apologised profusely to her co-star, Alex Breville, for the uncoordinated elbow.

Violet preceded Natalia along the corridor from Stage H to her dressing room, head bowed, her mind a buzz with the last five hours on repeat. The company producing _Improbity_ were using facilities across the lot from her old _Regency Road_ stomping ground. The dressing rooms and recreation facilities were shared, so Violet knew her way around.

"Evenin' James," Natalia said from behind her.

Violet lifted her gaze, preparing to give a cursory smile to whatever art department bod Natalia had greeted.

James Moriarty— _Jim_ —leaned casually against the door frame of Violet's dressing room. Violet abruptly stopped walking, her stomach turning.

"Natalia, Violet," Jim said, straightening up and giving each woman in turn a polite nod. "Well, I see this is a bit awkward," he added. Violet's throat had seized up, and she couldn't even croak out any semblance of a greeting. She had to quell the hysteria that threatened to rise up and revolt. _You're ruining my life!_ she wanted to scream at him, but instead, her lips parted, her breath shuddering on the way in.

"I'll just get her changed," Natalia answered for her, the costume assistant's polite even tone in stark contrast to Violet's silent rage. "Make her decent," she added with a giggle. "Then she's all yours."

"I'll see you in the tea room, then," Jim replied, his gaze returning to Violet. "… if you can hang about a bit longer. I've got good news."

Without waiting to hear a reply, Jim turned from them and disappeared around the corner.

Violet felt numb as Natalia assisted with the removal of her half-costume and adhesive modesty pads. The wardrobe assistant chatted about her plans for the weekend, a conversation Violet would usually participate in. Her mind, instead, swam with a multitude of thoughts. Why was Jim here? Would he take one look at her and know she was still in a relationship with Sherlock Holmes? Her Consulting Detective boyfriend often deduced a person's relationship status based on seemingly trivial aspects of their being: the state of their nail cuticles or the way their hair was styled. What tell-tale signs would be written all over Violet's features?

And how the fuck did Natalia know Jim Moriarty? Was she employed by him? Was she another spy, like Violet's former co-star and good friend— _ex_ -friend—Timothy Killaney turned out to be?

There were still a handful of production and technical staff members milling about the tea room when Violet arrived dressed in her street clothes and carrying her shoulder bag. Her heart beat erratically, and she was sure her cheeks were still flushed. A production assistant had been despatched to inform her he was available to drive her home. She had waved the young man away, bidding him to give her five minutes. Could she count on the P.A. to interrupt her at just the right moment when Jim was about to deduce her and Sherlock's hidden romance?

Jim chatted to Alistair _Something_ from the Accounting department as Violet approached. She felt as if all eyes were upon her, even though nobody was turned in her direction. Except him. Jim Moriarty.

"Excuse me, one moment, Al," Jim said, indicating Violet with a nod. "I need to have a chat with our lovely Ms Hunter here."

Alistair melted into the periphery with parting words Violet didn't register. Did Jim know _everybody_?

She tried to remember what ignorance felt like—that blissful state in which she existed before Jim gave her his warning to Sherlock and threatened her friends' lives. The fragmented memory of that afternoon had left its jagged edges in her heart. She hoped her expression gave nothing away except an underlying desire to wipe the earth of Jim Moriarty's existence in a deliberate and violent manner.

"Cuppa tea?" he asked, gesturing towards the counter-top, where a meagre selection of black and herbal teas were on offer. "They've got these chocolate-coated digestives, but they're sugar-free," he lamented, holding up an oat specimen and turning it this way and that. "Can't see the point of them, really. I think the grips ate all the regular ones."

"What are you doing here?" Violet said, her cheeks burning. "It was a closed set."

"Of course it was," Jim agreed, before taking a bite into the offending digestive. While munching away, he said, "You don't want all these… gaffers… and what not… enjoying the naughty bits while you're trying to get off with Alex Breville. That would be so… so… What's the opposite of sexy?"

Violet hugged her arms tighter, fingernails digging into elbows. She was about to repeat her question, demanding to know why Jim was at the studio, when his face contorted into a grimace. He left her side for the kitchenette counter and pulled a few wads of paper towel from the dispenser. Holding it to his mouth, he appeared to offload the half-chewed biscuit into the towel. Striding the full length of the bench, Jim dropped the offending rubbish into the bin, before rejoining Violet.

"Sorry about that," he said, wiping around his mouth with his finger tips. "But there's no point enduring the unpalatable."

As the amount of ambient noise appeared to die away, Violet took that moment to glance around at her surroundings. The few remaining staff members were just disappearing through the door. It looked like she and Jim were alone.

The empty room prompted Violet to drop her guard, only a little.

"I don't know why you're here," she spat, her voice laced with venom. "I gave Sherlock your stupid message. He didn't listen, as I'm sure you know." She felt her nostrils flare when she thought about Emily. The man that was stood in front of her had her friend killed. _He killed her!_ Inhaling a steadying breath, Violet added, "It looks like he wants to play this… this pathetic game of yours, but I want you to leave me out of it. I don't want anything to do with the pair of you. Why don't you ask _him_ out on a date and discuss it? I heard he's available."

Jim threw back his head, barking out a laugh.

Violet stood taller, her demeanour taking on a defiant air, as she watched Jim recompose himself when his laughter died down. He squared his shoulders and met Violet's gaze.

"I'm not here to talk about Sherlock Holmes," he said, waving a dismissive hand. "I'm glad you got rid of him, quite frankly. Like I said: I've got good news, too."

Violet attempted to swallow discreetly.

" _Canning Town_ ," Jim offered. "We've got a script. Finally. Stacia's having a look, but there's no reason Ms Jecks won't give it her seal of approval. I can be very persuasive when it comes to stubborn authors. And as for financing—"

"I'm not interested."

Jim appeared to feign surprise. It was the worst bit of acting Violet had seen in recent times.

"This is your dream come true, Violet. Your precious _Canning Town_ is coming to the big screen with you in the starring role!"

"I don't care!"

Jim took a step towards Violet, leaned in and said, "Then act like you do." She stiffened, but he went on in a low voice, "You will learn to appreciate everything I've done for you. And everything I will continue to do for you. Because every project I want you to take from now on, every role presented to you, every script that's sent for your perusal, _Violet Hunter_ , will come wrapped in a big, fat red bow, along with a card that reads, _To Lettie, best regards, Jim_." Violet's heart jolted at hearing the nickname Emily used to call her. " _Learn_ to care," Jim continued. " _Learn_ to be interested. Be grateful. Because I - _own_ \- you."

While Violet's heart began to shred, Jim brightened as he looked beyond her.

"Looks like your ride's here," he said.

As if a light switch had been toggled, Violet softened her expression. She'd had a month of well-practised masking of emotions: the director's call of 'Action'; the rap on the bathroom door when Mandi asked why she was taking so long; the response required by Dan when he asked, "Y'all right, Vi?" She knew how to compose herself to the outside world in an instant.

Violet looked over her shoulder to find the production assistant standing hesitantly in the doorway. He raised his hand as if asking permission to speak.

"Won't be a moment," she said, smiling sweetly. Turning back to Jim, she asked at a volume only meant for his ears, "And what if I don't?"

Jim gave her an affectionate smile in return.

"Did anyone ever tell you, you look a bit like Daisy Firmington?"

A jolt again. The one that caused the earth to spin off-kilter.

Jim gave her a quick wink and headed towards the door. Violet didn't turn around, in case the production assistant was still there. She wasn't quite ready yet.

"Ciao. Violet Hunter," Jim called out behind her.

That was the second time Jim had mentioned Daisy Firmington. _Poor Daisy didn't,_ he remarked of the woman's inability to stay for the ride, the one for which he was the tour guide. _She left early._ And Jim was one among many who had noted the similarity between Violet Hunter and the young American actress who had died before her time. The brother of Violet's _Kara's War_ co-star, Spencer Munro, had been the first to mention it, followed by her actor flatmate, Alice—although Alice had renamed Violet 'Black Daisy' when her stint on _Regency Road_ required Violet's hair to be dyed black. Then along came Stuart Jire, who also commented on it when she worked on _Regency Road_. Quite the flurry of recognition. But now this connection to Jim Moriarty for both of them—her and Daisy. So he controlled Daisy's career as well? And she'd failed to comply?

There was a light cough behind her and Violet rummaged in her bag as if she had been distracted. Pulling out her phone, she turned to the P.A.

"Thanks for waiting," she said, heading towards him with another award-winning smile.

It was in slow-motion that she now watched Sherlock Holmes studying her, as he waited for a response to his rapid-fire deduction. He had a smile at the ready. Eyes dancing. He didn't seem to be deducing her secrets in this moment. Perhaps if she could fool Jim Moriarty, then Sherlock Holmes could be equally hoodwinked.

Her boyfriend didn't have to know the truth about the power that that maniac wielded over her. Nor did he need to know that his deduction about Christmas was partially incorrect.

She could have this moment with him, however long they had, and actually _feel_ something for the first time in weeks. Real emotions, genuine reactions.

"How long can you stay?" Violet asked, reaching for Sherlock and taking hold of the ridiculous-looking, grubby hoody he was wearing.

"Til Boxing Day," Sherlock replied. "But, I'd have to leave under the cover of darkness. So that means you'll have to entertain me for two days and a bit, if that's all right."

 _Two days!_

Two _whole_ days!

Violet's heart began to melt under his gaze and she slid her arms around his neck. Pulling him down, close enough for a whisper, she refuted, "I think it's you who'll have to entertain me."

Sherlock gave a low chuckle.

"Happy Christmas," he said.

#

 _ **Author's note:**_

 _ **Next up: A Happy Christmas for them both, because they deserve it, don't they? Thanks for reading.**_


	22. Rather Have Anyone But You

**Chapter 22 - Rather Have Anyone But You**

Their breathing came in quick, laboured bursts, punctuated by gasps and moans of pleasure.

Violet was undoing him, searing and sealing him in ecstacy, and she appeared to revel in it. He indulged himself for a time, his mind emptying. But when she slid sinuously along his body, Sherlock sought to regain the upper hand. Violet put up a fierce resistance, limbs and sheets tangled together. At last he mounted an oral assault, and she gasped out, "Don't stop." A plead in desperation. Nails dug into his shoulders as Violet urged him on. She couldn't reciprocate now; she was in freefall.

He listened to her jagged breathing as he flicked his tongue, teasing and tormenting her, over her, into her. Like music to his ears, his name came on a moan. Violet tried to pull Sherlock away, tugging at his hair, pulling his shoulders, but he held her where he wanted her, savouring the taste of her. Blood thundered in his head when she shuddered and cried out, arching in pleasure. Hearing her gasp his name once more sent a bolt of thrill through him. Violet's breath caught and released again and again, until finally, she exhaled a long and deep sigh.

Sherlock worked his way up again, his body aching in anticipation. Violet wrapped herself around him, guiding him into her as she whispered, "Sherlock," in a desperate kind of longing. His heart leapt at the first thrust. He knew the urgency would build, but he wanted to draw this out, to savour every act from now on. A horrid thought had flashed through his mind. Any moment could be their last.

Violet pulled him deep, arching her hips. He tried to fight the torrent of sensations that rose inside, but she increased pressure, drawing out a moan from his lips.

Blood rushed under his skin. His pulse raced. He had to quell the primal urge to take and plunder.

Locking his eyes on Violet's, Sherlock noticed a flicker of dark intent cross her features. His desire quickened. Violet pushed against his shoulder, so he acquiesced, rolling them both until she straddled him on top.

"You're not getting off lightly," she whispered.

Sherlock gripped her hips in anticipation, but Violet began at an almost leisurely pace.

Need raged through him. He forced himself to quieten his desire. He'd play along. First he skimmed his hands along her thighs and back up over her hips, before trailing up to her ribcage and down again.

It was a torturous pace. On the one hand, Sherlock wanted it to end, and on the other, he wanted to have this exquisite pleasure go on forever.

Violet was maintaining a steady rhythm. Sherlock's mind reeled. He pulled her towards him, and she yielded only a little, her mouth hovering inches above his. He parted his lips. Desperate now. Her breath fluttered over him. The need for a physical release grew every second.

Sherlock moved restlessly beneath Violet. She bent her head, avoided his mouth and grazed her teeth along his jawline before nipping at his earlobe. His loins throbbed painfully with Violet's long, deliberate movements.

When she straightened up, he rose with her, taking one breast in his mouth and flicking his tongue over her nipple. She let out a low moan, and he suddenly deduced the meaning behind her actions.

She desired another orgasm; she wasn't there yet, so she was prolonging his.

Sherlock moved with her, slowly. Languidly. The ache was unbearable, but he was stirring her needs again, too. He trailed his hands over her soft curves, sought her other breast and caught the nipple between his thumb and finger. It was already hard with need. She whispered to God now, and he knew he had her. Fingers curled into his hair, so he grabbed Violet's hips and thrust deeper.

A moan escaped his own lips this time, and they both moved together in a tempo of urgency. The gift of Violet's tiny gasps of pleasure was powerfully arousing. Heat balled in his abdomen. Her breath caught and expelled a moan. She was close.

Sherlock pulled her mouth down to his. Warm and hungry and just as keen. They feasted off each other as heat slashed Sherlock's stomach. He drove them harder and Violet hummed in desperation against his mouth.

Breathless, they plunged. Violet rode him with a ruthless energy, until finally she arched against him, emitting a rough edgy moan from her throat.

Sherlock let himself go. Those wonderful, pulsing aches gave way to stronger sensations that swamped him. Explosions of heat buried him. His heart sprinted, every nerve alight, until the waves of pleasure dulled to tingles.

Violet clung to him as they stilled, her heart racing against his, her breath cooling his neck.

Keeping her in his arms, he eased them both to the bed. Violet repositioned herself, cuddling into his side, one arm resting across his chest that still heaved from exertion.

A few minutes ticked by as they listened to each other's breathing in the otherwise stillness of the flat. Sweat cooled on their bodies.

"Mm, glad that's out of the way," Sherlock drawled. "Now what are we going to do for entertainment?"

Sherlock's question didn't require an answer, but Violet waited only a beat before she replied.

"I'm going to freshen up. Why don't you get the wine?"

Violet had risen and disappeared from the bedroom before Sherlock had even properly registered what she'd suggested. He was still contemplating what it felt like to have Violet in his arms once more.

It felt like home.

He blinked upon hearing the bathroom door click shut along the hallway. Heaving out a sigh, he swivelled and planted his feet on the floor.

 _Wine_ , he thought, bowing his head in distaste and scratching his scalp. Were they going to spend the rest of the evening drinking red wine?

Sherlock found his boxer trunks in an untidy pile of discarded clothing. He slid them on before padding along the hallway to the kitchen. Violet was showering, he noted. He could do with one himself, having worn secondhand clothes borrowed from Billy. Should he join her?

Something told him he wouldn't be welcome right now. He couldn't quite put his finger on why he suspected that.

Bordeaux—two of those—Merlot and Pinot Noir, he read of the bottles still in the box. Now, what went well with an empty stomach? Sherlock tutted as he scanned the contents of Violet's fridge. She obviously thought wine went well with cheese, but what of people with a finer palate? This wouldn't do.

By the time Violet had emerged from the shower, towel-drying her hair and wearing a bright pink dressing gown, Sherlock was casually leaning against the wall by the window, the best vantage point for discreetly peering down onto the street below through the gap in the curtains.

"Why are you dressed in that again?" Violet asked.

"Because I'm organising dinner."

Sherlock returned his gaze to the view outside.

"I've got cheese."

He huffed at the suggestion.

"Did you go out?" Violet asked.

"Sort of."

As a raincoated figure holding a delivery bag approached the portico downstairs, Sherlock hastened over to the front door.

"What do you mean, 'sort of'? Did you go out, or didn't you?"

Sherlock opened Violet's door, listened for the door buzzer to the flat downstairs, then pressed the button on the intercom which would release the latch on the foyer door. He slipped out onto the landing, then reconsidered.

Poking his head back round the still open door, he said to Violet, "I'll just leave this door ajar, so you don't have to get up to let me in, okay?"

Violet tutted and went back to combing her wet hair as she sat on the twin sofa.

Sherlock made it down to the first floor just in time to hear footfalls ascending from below. He pulled up the hood on Billy's jumper. Fishing around in his track-pants pocket, he retrieved fifty, twenty and ten pound notes.

Fishing around in his Mind Palace, he retrieved a temporary identity.

"Seventy-six, wasn't it?" he said to the young man who held their dinner. Sherlock was using a well-worn Scottish accent—somebody who had been born in Scotland, but had lived in London for quite some time. It worked on occasion. "Keep the change."

With takeaway dishes now in hand, Sherlock returned to the flat to find Violet frowning at _Regency Road_ on the telly while she combed her hair. She unfolded her legs and scrutinised Sherlock as he headed for the kitchen.

"Don't get up," he said. "I'll bring you something. I bought extra so we can eat it over the next two days."

Violet followed him into the kitchen anyway.

"What did you mean, you 'sort of' went out?" she asked.

"I didn't want to use our phones to order the food or give them your flat number," Sherlock began as he lifted each container out of the plastic bag. "You're not supposed to be here, so I broke into your downstairs neighbour's flat through the balcony door and called from their landline. They're spending Christmas in Whitby, judging by the pamphlets littering the kitchen table, but they left the sliding door unlocked. Probably because they're on the first floor. They think they're safe. I'm glad to see yours is locked, but your bedroom window isn't."

"You… what?"

Sherlock looked up from his stocktake. Violet had already retrieved two wine glasses.

"I called from their flat and gave their flat number as the delivery address."

Violet didn't compliment him on his cleverness, Sherlock noted, deflating a little. She turned around and silently poured wine into both of the glasses.

"The Bordeaux will go best with the beef," he said, indicating the array of dishes. "What else would you like?"

Violet leant back against the kitchen counter, a glass of wine to her lips.

"I'm not hungry," she said.

"Didn't we just work up an appetite?" Sherlock remarked, quirking an eyebrow.

Violet took a long sip of her wine.

"You choose," she said, pushing off from the counter. She turned and grabbed Sherlock's glass as well, before making for the living area.

Something twisted inside Sherlock.

Well, how had he expected her to be? Like the Violet he knew before this nightmare had begun? The playful, sparkly Original Violet, who'd tease him and gabble about nothing. Who'd hang off his arm and tell him how clever he was?

This charade was taking its toll on her—he could see that. And by Danny's account, she was taking it out on those closest to her as well. But he was here now, and it was the festive season. Hadn't she (surreptitiously) invited him around? Why wasn't she ecstatic about it?

Sherlock loaded up two plates with a selection of Chinese food. He put the remainder in the fridge for Christmas and Boxing Day.

"Look at these losers," Violet said, indicating the telly with her (three-quarters empty) wine glass. "They think they're doing something really important."

"I'm not up-to-date with the story-line these days," Sherlock remarked as he placed the dinner plates on the coffee table in front of them. He sank down onto the seat beside Violet.

"I'm not talking about the story-line," she said, without taking her eyes from the screen. "I mean the actors. They think this means something. That they're doing a service for all of humanity. God, the acting industry is such a fucking waste of space."

Violet drained her wine as Sherlock's skin prickled.

This wasn't right. He knew she was out of sorts, but Violet Hunter _loved_ the acting industry. Her eyes would light up whenever she spoke about obscure plays and performances, her favourite books and how amazing it would be if they were made into screenplays with her in the starring roles. She'd recount incidences on set and worry about all manner of things relating to her acting gigs. But she revelled in it all. If anything, Sherlock had been counting on Violet's work to see her through.

He was lost for words, so he picked up his own wine glass and took a sip.

"I should've brought the bottle over," Violet said, placing her now empty glass onto the coffee table and rising from the sofa.

"I'll get it," Sherlock said, vacating his seat. Since he was closer to the kitchen, he could make a swift retreat before Violet even rounded the table.

He had brought both glasses with him but tipped the contents of his drink down the sink. In the other room, Violet was changing channels and not settling on any one programme by the sounds of it.

Sherlock poured wine into both glasses. There was still a bit left in the bottle, so he poured that down the sink as well. Just how was this evening going to play out? He had to match Violet drink for drink, so she'd have less to consume herself. Was this something he should be concerned about, or was this just her efforts to celebrate Christmas with him?

He watched with an ever-growing ache in his heart when Violet drained about two-thirds of her new glass.

"You should really eat something," he said. "That's a lot of alcohol on an empty stomach."

"You sound just like Mandi," Violet retorted, placing her glass down onto the coffee table.

What was more concerning than being likened to Violet's loathsome BFF, was the fact that Mandi also had to tell Violet not to drink on an empty stomach, apparently. So this _was_ a larger concern. But why the hell didn't Dan Corlionne—the breakfast-eating, pseudo-boyfriend—mention it?

"I just don't want you to be sick or hungover during our brief time together," Sherlock replied. He was trying to act nonchalant as he stabbed at another piece of Szechuan Beef with his fork, but when his heart was in his mouth he found it difficult keeping his voice even.

Violet reached over, grabbed the remote control and turned the telly off. She drew her legs up, hugging her knees as she regarded Sherlock. He tried to keep eating under her gaze, but his mouth was running dry, making it hard to swallow.

"Why don't you tell me about one of your cases," Violet prompted him.

Sherlock swallowed. He eased back into the sofa and gave Violet a half smile, while he wracked his brain for a case.

"You'll like this one," he said, resting an arm along the back of the sofa. He began relating the story to Violet, spurred on by the shine in her eyes. It was almost like old times, until Violet frowned.

"Wait," she said. "Is this the one about the brother and the ladder?"

"Ah… yes."

"You've already told me that one. It's an old case, isn't it? From a couple of years ago."

"Yes, yes, it is. I just thought you'd want to hear one that was interesting."

"No. I want to hear about one you've worked on since we've been apart. In the last month."

Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Well… they were… they were… There's the one about the accountant… but that's probably boring. Spreadsheets and… things. Or… there's the married couple. He's cheating on her, but she's… No. Boring. That one barely rated as a two. S-so there's…"

"What have you been working on?" Violet asked. "Any murders or violent criminals?"

He was losing her. She was becoming annoyed with him.

Violet reached for her wine glass.

"Chenoa Burton," Sherlock scrambled to say.

Violet paused, the glass halfway to her lips.

"S-she came to visit me. Just after you left."

"Why?"

"Be… cause… she thinks Stuart Jire didn't attack her. In fact, she was sure of it."

Violet's expression seemed to harden, and she narrowed her eyes.

"And what do you think?" she asked.

"I… don't know. I haven't solved that one."

Violet took a sip of her wine.

"But Mary has a theory," Sherlock added, brightening.

"Well, perhaps I should be dating Mary," Violet muttered, and she drained the last of her drink. "I'm going to bed."

Sherlock sat stunned in the wake of Violet's remark and subsequent departure. This evening was definitely not going as he'd planned.

His movements felt mechanical as he took the dishes—including Violet's congealed meal—into the kitchen. After placing them on the counter, he turned and leant against the cool granite, bowing his head to his hand. Rubbing his brow, he retreated into his Mind Palace.

Violet wasn't acting very festive, and she was usually one for celebrating all manner of pointless things. Although she demonstrated enthusiasm in the bedroom earlier, her attitude since then had been quite the opposite.

 _Perhaps I should be dating Mary._

Her words were a blow to his heart.

Sherlock's lack of progress on any case that mattered was a huge problem. He knew that. He was failing Violet, and his heart weighed heavily with guilt. Her descent into whatever this was, was entirely his fault. Their separation was his idea, and he hadn't made headway with the Moriarty case. Was that why she was pushing him away this evening? But New Year's Eve! It could all change then! Should he tell her about Irene Adler?

Out of the darkness of his Mind Palace, a besuited figure emerged.

 _Clearly she doesn't want you here_ , Mind Palace Mycroft said, prodding the floor with his umbrella.

Sherlock scoffed. It had been an age since he had the pleasure of the company of the personification of his insecurities.

 _The four bottles of wine_ , Mycroft went on, raising an eyebrow to prompt Sherlock into making a deduction. _The cheese. These are not consumables to be shared, Brother Mine. You know she has a penchant for these items. If she planned on accommodating you, there would've been… frozen meals, and… whiskey._ Mycroft's gaze was piercing. _You were never invited. Your presence is not required. Your deduction was incorrect._

Sherlock lifted his head, his eyes snapping open with this new revelation.

Violet hadn't invited him!

Sherlock's chest heaved as he suddenly inhaled. He stared, unseeing, across the kitchen, his mind replaying the moment of his arrival: the expression on Violet's face as she spun around to discover Sherlock standing there. She had been genuinely surprised to see him. There had been no expectations, no relief that he'd received her message. She had actually seemed confused about his deduction regarding her father's flight plans.

 _Not expected. Not welcome._

 _You should leave_ , Mycroft bid him. _Leave her to her wine and cheese. She hates her life—the acting industry, her relationship status. And you are a reminder of it all. Leave._

 _Ahem._

Another voice. Another figure stepping out of the dark recesses of his Mind Palace.

John Watson.

 _This is her hour of need,_ John began. _Are you really just going to leave her in this state? What she_ wants _is to be left alone. What she_ needs _is companionship. Yours, mate._

 _Don't be ridiculous,_ Mycroft spat. _She'll resent you for staying. The best thing you can do for her, for your relationship, is to respect her wishes._

 _You love her,_ John said, stepping closer. _She needs you._ Pointing to the floor, he added firmly, _Don't leave her like this. It's Christmas!_

Sherlock looked from one apparition to the other, his mind in turmoil, his ego in tatters.

Pushing off from the counter, he made his decision.

#

 _ **Author's Note:**_

 _ **Whoopsie! Did someone ask for a**_ **happy** _ **Christmas?**_

 _ **It's not too late to cast your vote!**_


	23. Wish You Could Have Worn the Antlers

**Chapter 23 - Wish You Could Have Worn the Antlers**

Violet spat into the sink, rinsed both her toothbrush and her mouth.

How dare he ruin her Christmas? Just showing up like that. But that's what he does, the maniac. Appearing out of the blue, making seemingly innocuous comments, when all the while there's a more sinister intent.

 _Wasn't I free of him?_ she thought, a shudder running through her as she watched the water swirl around the sink. He'd made his threat in Australia, and Violet hoped she'd never have to lay eyes on him again. But Jim made it clear when he turned up unannounced outside her dressing room the other day that he was going to be a permanent fixture in her life. At the helm of her career.

A lovely Christmas present from a psychopath.

For the remainder of the week, the idea never left her. Its heavy presence clamped itself to every limb, so each movement felt like she was wearing shackles. And what about Natalia, from wardrobe? Was she keeping tabs on Violet? Reporting every phone call, every conversation, back to Jim?

Her mind never ceased its endless questioning. Numbing it seemed like the only solution. But in those tingling after effects, her thoughts blackened at the edges, as if set alight. And it was scary just how scorched they became.

Violet shook her head to clear it, then dabbed her mouth with the hand towel beside the sink. As she straightened up, she drew in a sharp breath at Sherlock's appearance in the bathroom doorway.

"Do you mind if I take a shower?" he asked. His eyes were rounded, his mouth slightly down-turned. He was unsure of himself.

"That's fine," she replied, her expression softening. Opening the cabinet of the vanity unit, she added, "Here's a towel."

Sherlock squeezed past her as she placed the spare towel beside the sink.

"Thank you," he murmured, pulling off his hoody and t-shirt in one go. He cleared his throat, before reaching into the shower stall and turning on the hot tap.

Violet felt a lead weight in her stomach. She'd treated him badly. Sherlock. He'd lost all self-confidence around her. And it was so lovely of him sneaking in to spend Christmas with her. Well, he thought it was her idea, but why would she set him straight?

Drinking two wines on an empty stomach hadn't served to anaesthetise her, which was what she'd initially intended when ordering the box of wines for the Christmas period. Instead, the sweet, full-bodied Bordeaux had armed her, sharpened her tongue, and she'd cruelly used it against Sherlock.

Lightly touching his arm, Violet said, "Sorry I was a bit short. Rough week. I'm really glad you're here."

His expression brightened a little into a smile.

"Me, too."

Violet pressed a light kiss to the corner of his mouth and said, "Yeah, I think you do need that shower."

Sherlock huffed a laugh and turned from her. Violet made a bid for her bedroom across the hallway. She set about making the bed since the covers and pillows had either tumbled or been shoved to the floor during their heated antics earlier.

Settling beneath the covers to wait for Sherlock, she silently urged herself, _Please make an effort._

#

By the time Sherlock joined Violet in the bedroom, the lights were low, and Violet lay under the covers, facing away from the door.

Sherlock shed his towel and slipped, completely naked, between the sheets.

"I've taken the liberty of putting my clothes in the wash," he said in a low voice. "I hope that's okay?"

Violet rolled over to face him.

"Mm," she replied, stifling a yawn. "Probably a good idea. They were a bit whiffy. Lucky thing it's Christmas tomorrow."

"How is that relevant?"

"Um… I mean… we can stay in bed all day." She brightened beneath heavy-lidded eyes. "Who needs clothes?"

Sherlock gave a low chuckle. He shuffled closer to Violet and stole a kiss. Her lips were warm and plump, and she was as naked as he was. He felt his needs stirring.

Easing back, she murmured, "The wine's made me sleepy. Sorry."

His stomach plummeted again, but Violet snuggled alongside, nestling her head into the crook of his neck.

"No, that's… that's fine," he said, rearranging them so he could band an arm around her. "We have plenty of time."

With his free hand, he reached up and switched off the bedside lamp. He lay awake, thoughts adrift, listening to Violet's breathing.

How could he make this better? Perhaps if he told Violet everything he knew so far, as if she were his skull on the mantlepiece, he might make headway on the case. See everything through someone else's eyes. It helped. He knew the drill. And "everything _"_ included his efforts to re-engage with Irene Adler. The trips to the nightclubs. The rave bars.

And the result? A flyer through the letterbox. It was something, he supposed.

New Year's Eve, he thought sleepily. A yawn tugged at his ability to stay awake.

When the bed jolted, Sherlock pried open his eyes. The lethargy in his limbs indicated he'd been asleep for quite some time. A hazy view of Violet beaming down at him came into focus.

"Happy Christmas!" she proclaimed.

The weak light filtering in through the bedroom window told Sherlock the earliness of the hour. He propped himself on elbows, turning to scrutinise the clock on the dresser to dramatise the point he wanted to make.

"It's only seven," he said, sinking back down again. Closing his eyes, he murmured, "What have you done with the real Violet Hunter?"

"It's Christmas!" she chirruped.

With an exaggerated groan, Sherlock grabbed the nearest pillow and plopped it onto his face. Giggling, Violet pulled it from him.

"Go do your morning ablutions," she said cheerily. "Then hurry back. I've got a surprise for you!"

Sherlock sat up wearily.

"Can't we celebrate Christmas by wrestling naked under the covers or something?"

"Go!" she bid him, playfully swatting him with the pillow. She then shoved something further behind her. A box—square and flat.

Dropping his feet to the floor, Sherlock said with a sigh, "You bought me a dressing gown."

Violet's silence indicated she was gaping at his deduction.

He stood and waved a disinterested hand in Violet's direction, saying, "Well, you said something last night about it being good it's Christmas in relation to me putting my clothes in the wash…" Sherlock commenced walking out of the room, completely naked, as he continued, "and that box you've just hidden behind your back is from the Trevor & Vernet Autumn Collection of 2011."

He didn't wait for Violet's reply, escaping into the bathroom.

Thank God Violet was sparkling again. He enjoyed their banter, and her current festive spirit was one he'd love to capture and preserve in a jar of isopropyl alcohol.

When he returned to the bedroom, however, Violet was standing on her toes, attempting to shove his present onto the top shelf of her wardrobe.

"You're an arsehole," she said, with one last shove. "I'm giving it to Danny."

Sherlock smiled to himself as he slid back into bed. He loved these playful interactions. Christ, how he'd missed this!

He quickly corralled his features into a serious expression when Violet turned around.

"No, no, no," he said, lacing his fingers together over the bedspread. "Let's play pretend. I'll be an ordinary, everyday person—someone who puts the bins out and goes on pub crawls. No awareness or deductive ability regarding the world around me. Basically a moron. I'll pretend to be surprised." He punctuated his statement with a wide smile.

Violet drew her previously gaping dressing gown around her and tied the sash.

Pity. Sherlock had been enjoying the view.

She narrowed her eyes at him, as if considering his suggestion. Slowly, she turned around and reached up for the box. Because she'd shoved it so hard towards the back, she now couldn't reach it.

Sherlock silently left the bed, drew up beside Violet and retrieved the box for her. He then returned to his previous position, sitting up against the headboard. Once more, he clasped his hands together. The epitome of patience and ordinariness.

He could detect a smile struggling to surface beneath Violet's cool exterior.

"It's to replace the one that woman wore," she said, placing the box in his lap. "Merry Christmas."

"Thank you," he said, ending with a light cough at the memory of _that woman_ and the trouble she'd caused. Sherlock hadn't actually discarded the dressing gown Irene Adler had worn. Was he supposed to?

With deft fingers, Sherlock untied the red, silk ribbon that criss-crossed the lid of the box.

"It matches the colour of your eyes," Violet went on. "Well, the colour they are when you're happy."

"Firstly, you're ruining the surprise, and secondly, my eye colour doesn't change with my mood."

"Yes, it does."

Violet sank down onto the bed beside Sherlock's legs, watching him as he lifted the lid. He feigned surprise.

"Oh… what's this?" he asked, peeling back the tissue paper.

The silk fabric shimmered up at him—the turquoise of south Pacific island waters, with golden sunlight glinting on wave peaks. His eyes weren't that colour, were they?

"Try it on!" Violet exclaimed, barely suppressing her enthusiasm. Sherlock fingered the fabric. One of Victor Trevor's finest textiles.

Standing at the mirror, tying the sash, Sherlock eyed his reflection and the young woman bursting with excitement beside him. Violet ran a flat hand down his sleeve, trailing over his back, as she gabbled about on the periphery of his hearing.

"I ordered it a while ago. I called Victor from Australia. You know, when I thought we'd be together for… Anyway, Victor said your favourite burgundy one came from the same collection, but there weren't any more available. He had this made just for you!"

Violet pulled up stops in front of him, her ebullience now at its peak.

"It's… amazing," Sherlock said as Violet attached herself to his lapels.

It truly was. Not the dressing gown, specifically, Sherlock thought on reflection. The whole experience. Violet's seasonal delight and enthusiasm were a novelty for him. He'd had a childhood full of traumatising Christmases—social expectations and criticism, demands and disappointments. A notebook full of man-trap designs he wasn't allowed to execute. And the noise!

Violet had lit up like a human Christmas tree with the idea of giving Sherlock a present. And she hadn't once told him how to react—okay, his ill-timed deduction had been a false start. Apart from that.

"And now," she said, her eyes glinting with mischief, "the second part of your present."

Puzzled, Sherlock frowned and tilted his head, but Violet tugged at his sash, then dropped to her knees.

"Oh!" he exclaimed, his breath catching.

This time, his gasp of delight was genuine.

#

"Toast it is then," Sherlock agreed. He didn't really care what Violet prepared them for breakfast. She'd already looked appalled at his offer to go downstairs and poke around in the McCall's fridge and pantry. He'd only made the suggestion half-heartedly. It was broad daylight, after all, and not conducive to illegally entering a residence through the balcony door.

But apart from the Chinese takeaway he had purchased for their dinners, Violet's fridge contents were pretty sparse.

Once Violet left for the kitchen, Sherlock quickly re-robed himself, then hastened over to the window from which he had stealthily entered her flat yesterday evening. Sliding his hand between the window and the blind, he retrieved the palm-sized felt box he had left there.

Just a small token, he told himself, but all the same, he felt his face flushing.

Violet was humming to herself as she put away the dishes Sherlock had washed last night when he was contemplating whether or not he was going to walk out on his girlfriend.

He cleared his throat.

When Violet straightened up from stowing the dinner plates in the lower cabinet, he told her, "You're not the only one who did a spot of… ah… Christmas shopping."

Seeing the object in his hand, Violet's eyes widened a little. Sherlock's heart gave a little jolt reminding him that he had one. He'd given Violet jewellery before—upon solving the John Douglas murder case—but Christmas was something else again. Sherlock had never in his life given another person a Christmas present.

He held out the gift box, watching as Violet's eyes moistened.

"Oh…" she said on a shaky exhale.

When she didn't automatically reach for it, Sherlock realised he was supposed to open it for her. This he did, murmuring, "Happy Christmas, Violet," and feeling a bit silly at the ritual.

"Sherlock," she breathed, bringing her hands to her mouth.

"It's a… well, I'm told it's a _charm_ bracelet."

Sherlock blinked away his distaste. Charms, magic potions, spells. Abhorrent things. But the modern interpretation of charms, according to Mary Watson, meant items of a personal nature: sentimental attachments. And people loved those things, apparently.

Since Violet still hadn't taken the item from him, Sherlock scooped up the delicate jewellery and held it dangling between his fingers.

"And these are the charms."

At last, Violet reached for the bracelet, a smile growing on her face.

"Theatre masks," she said of the first trinket.

"Because you… um," he said, fading into a light cough. Explaining to Violet it was because she was an actor seemed superfluous. "And another… mouse… thing."

"Mickey Mouse."

"Yes. In miniature, because…"

"It has to fit on the bracelet. And you wanted the memory of us holidaying in the U.S. together."

"Ah… yes."

"And the book?"

"Our first case."

"A book?"

"Frances Carfax. The books she exchanged with her teacher. Your theory. Good one though." He was rambling. Just shut up, now! "Obviously," he added, waving a hand at the bracelet, "there's room for more… I suppose I can buy you charms on random occasions… to mark… events of significance."

He scratched behind one ear while Violet examined the charms, her expression bright and eager.

Sherlock tossed the felt box onto the kitchen counter. Could he get back to being a serious unemotional, logical Consulting Detective now?

Folding his hands behind his back, he watched as Violet unhooked the bracelet.

"Oh… could you…" she said.

Realising she was struggling to clasp the bracelet around her wrist, he reached out and assisted her.

She was overflowing with emotion now. Predictable.

"Thank you," she finally gasped.

Violet threw her arms around Sherlock and held fast. He heard her sniff, surely a good sign, so he patted her back with well-practised patience. He'd survived another relationship ritual! Thank God for Mary and her Christmas gift idea. It was a good thing it had been discussed well in advance of the fake breakup, otherwise he'd have floundered, with no idea what to purchase.

Violet drew back to examine the charms once more.

"They're beautiful."

"Okay, then," Sherlock said, releasing his hold on Violet and turning his attention to the toast that had popped up a minute prior.

Their second effort with breakfast, after an impromptu tumble beneath the sheets—with Violet wearing nothing but her Mickey Mouse necklace and charm bracelet—fared no better. Sherlock dropped the cold, dry slice back onto its plate on the coffee table. They stretched out on the sofa together, watching telly. Violet's previously festive mood had become subdued a little. He watched in faint amusement as Violet repeatedly pressed the remote control, eventually settling on _Music of the Monarchy._

"God, it's the only thing that's not painful to watch." Curiously, Sherlock noted, she no longer chose movies or soapies to watch, preferring newscasts, reality TV and documentaries.

Discarding the device, Violet shuffled around in Sherlock's embrace so she could face him. "Let's snog again."

They did, for a time, until Sherlock suggested wrestling holds, before he hit on the idea of recreating the set of moves Violet had used to incapacitate him the evening she'd discovered Sherlock about to whisper his (brilliant) deduction to Irene Adler. They spent a good amount of time stepping through each move, with Sherlock explaining how he could've blocked each one. Finally, he gave Violet tips on improving each blow to make them more lethal.

Instead of disrupting their interactions by giggling like she used to, Violet's brow remained furrowed in studious concentration, as if she really wanted to commit each choreographed movement to memory. Both fear and excitement rippled through Sherlock at the prospect of having Violet fight alongside him at some point in the future—as long as he wasn't the intended recipient of her blows.

They lazed through Christmas morning, with Sherlock eventually volunteering to heat the Chinese food for their celebratory lunch. He coordinated warming the various dishes in pots on the stove and containers in the microwave. Violet quizzed him about his own family Christmas traditions. Sherlock wasn't exactly forthcoming with anecdotes, but it didn't matter. Violet contributed quite a few of her own, to which he listened with the selected deafness he used to acquire in happier times.

They ate along to some Irishman reciting his travels through New Zealand. Eventually, they settled back on the sofa once more. Sherlock was definitely sated. Violet had at least eaten something, and they'd only consumed one glass of wine each during their meal.

At the conclusion of the show, Violet idly flicked through the other channels again, then reached forward and poured them each another glass of wine. Sherlock stretched out. The wine warmed his stomach, but his head felt heavy. He'd close his eyes for a few seconds… just for a minute or two…

He was pulled from his light slumber by the sound of crockery clattering in the kitchen. Scanning his surroundings to get his bearings, he noted that Violet had cleared the coffee table of the remnants of their Christmas lunch.

Sherlock wearily padded into the kitchen. Holding a glass of wine in one hand, Violet swished their plates in the sink.

"We might need another bottle," she said, without turning around.

Sherlock cast about the kitchen for the Merlot and the Shiraz.

"Aren't there two more?" he asked. "Your second Christmas Day one and another for Boxing Day?"

"This is the last of the Merlot. Why don't you see what the McCall's have?" She turned to him and smiled sweetly, but her eyes were glassy and almost closed to slits.

She'd already finished the second bottle while he slept?

"Well…" Sherlock began, his stomach plummeting. He didn't have the excuse that it was daytime and not a good opportunity for climbing out onto the balcony. It was now dark. How long had he slept?

"Or would you prefer Sparkling White?" she asked. "Mandi left one at the bottom of the fridge. I don't usually drink Champagne."

That was a lie if ever Sherlock heard one.

"Ah… no," he replied. "Why don't we open the Shiraz, and if we need another one tomorrow, I'll… get… one."

Hopefully they wouldn't need any more after tonight. He was still full from dinner, but Violet may well be on the way to consuming another bottle on an empty stomach.

But… it was Christmas, he thought wearily. He should cut Violet some slack.

Sherlock left the kitchen for the bathroom. When he returned, Violet was watching a celebrity dance show, wine glass in hand, and not enjoying the entertainment by the remarks passing her lips.

"Let's dance!" she suddenly exclaimed. Wobbling to her feet, she held out a hand to Sherlock.

"What? Now?"

Violet reached for the remote control and began turning up the volume on the telly. The mismatched bedfellows of disco and Samba began blasting from the speaker.

"Violet, wait!" Sherlock snatched up the control himself and quickly muted the volume. "You can't play loud music. We're not supposed to be here, remember!"

"Why can't we be here!" she snapped, causing Sherlock to flinch. "Why does _he_ get to do whatever _he_ wants! Why do _we_ have to tiptoe around?"

"Violet…"

Her eyes were filling with tears, as if her body, now full of alcohol, had sprung a leak.

"He's out there," she said, gesturing widely, "stuffing his face with turkey and… and Brussels sprouts, and stuffing his… his… stockings with dead bodies. Why does he get to live how he wants? Why does he get to live at all?"

Sherlock clicked off the telly then dropped the remote control onto the table.

Violet drooped a little. Deflated. Defeated.

He could argue the point with her… or…

… smother the explosion, risking life and limb himself.

Enveloping his girlfriend in his arms, Sherlock said softly, "We're making do. Hm? We can still dance." He effected a gentle sway, tucking Violet's head beneath his chin. "We'll start slow, like we did at the Watsons' wedding."

Violet easily complied in her highly suggestible state, Sherlock concluded.

At the wedding, they were both too drunk to do anything else but sway.

Sway and giggle. The giggling, at least, on Violet's part.

At the time, Sherlock had been reflecting on the silly ritual that comprised weddings. He'd wondered if Violet had that expectation for their relationship. That final seal of commitment. Another win for Team Conformity, although Sherlock's infidelity cases jeered loudly from the opposing corner. But he was committed to Violet. For life. Of that he was sure—fake separation or not. Could he change his mind about marriage now that he was in a committed relationship? Would this be something he'd consider?

He swayed with Violet in a slowly pivotting circle in one spot in the middle of her living room. The furnishings were sparse. Personal possessions were mostly absent. No magazines or novels stacked on every available surface. Come to think of it, there were no clothes covering her bedroom floor, nor makeup products cluttering the bathroom sink. What was going on here?

Violet had dealt with the lunch dishes and made the bed. Casting his mind back to the time she cleaned her father's flat within an inch of its life, and scrubbed Sherlock's own bathroom til it bled bleach, he came to a startling realisation.

Violet was an emotional wreck. This wasn't just a cry for help; she was screaming!

Perhaps a proposal of marriage during this "break" in their relationship would give Violet something to cling to: hope for the future, since everything seemed so bleak to her at the moment.

He could feel the tension leaving Violet's body. Either his efforts were working, or she was now completely tanked. Either way, he'd successfully pulled her back from the precipice.

So… was he going to do this? Propose to Violet?

When his heart began hammering in his chest, he felt Violet soften in his arms, murmuring to herself. Completely inebriated. It didn't take a Consulting Detective to reach that conclusion.

But…

The proposal.

When and where and how?

He'd have to buy a ring—he knew that much. Another piece of jewellery. Another ritual to be endured.

Sherlock's pulse beat in his ears and his skin prickled.

Really? He was going to ask Violet to marry him? They would _get married_ when all this was over?

Violet shifted in his arms, pulling back a little.

"Let's do it," she whispered, looking up at him with hope in her eyes.

Sherlock's breath hitched. Had he spoken out loud?

"Sorry?" he asked.

His mind quickly replayed the last few minutes. He was quite confident all his thoughts had remained secure behind locked doors.

"Kill him," Violet replied. "End his life."

Sherlock rapidly blinked, straightening up. Was he hearing things?

"What are you talking about?"

There was a faint light behind the fog of Violet's stare, like a beacon off some murky shore.

"Murder," she said. "We can… we can plot his murder." He wasn't hearing things. But his body reacted uncharactistically at the sound of that word.

 _Murder_.

Sherlock wasn't jumping for joy. No spring in his step this time. There was a mis-fire in his synapses.

"You're… you're Sherlock Holmes," Violet went on through the haze of her intoxication. "You'd know how to get away with it."

"Violet…"

"Don't you see?" She clutched at his dressing gown lapels like a lifeline. "We could get away with it and end all this… misery." Her lips twisted in animation of the word. "And it's not just us we'd be saving." Violet paused, as if waiting for a reaction from Sherlock, but all he could hear were sirens blasting from his Mind Palace. Code Red. It was a Code Red!

Oblivious, Violet struggled on, her enthusiasm spreading into the void left by Sherlock's silence.

"How many other people are being tormented by him? How many others aren't living the life they want because of his threats? He controls so much, but what if he wasn't around anymore?"

"Violet…"

"Let's do it," she said, finally pushing away from him and wobbling with the independence of a newborn foal. Her eyes shone brightly when she finally declared, "Let's plot the murder of Jim Moriarty."


	24. Maybe I Can Still Surprise You

**Chapter 24 - Maybe I Can Still Surprise You**

Violet pried open her eyes to find the room spinning.

"Oh, shit," she thought.

Faintly, through the haze of her hangover, she heard whistling. A merry tune.

A Christmas tune?

Against all baser instincts, she pulled herself to a sitting position, then hauled her protesting body to her feet. The room tilted. On shaky limbs, she wrapped her dressing gown around herself.

Opening the bedroom door—and briefly supporting her weight with it—she listened more intently to the whistling.

Sherlock didn't whistle like that and certainly not Christmas tunes.

 _Oh, Christ. Sounds like Danny._

Violet stumbled across the hallway to the bathroom. Ripples of nausea continued to ebb and flow. Sitting with her head bowed, she tried to make sense of the world.

What day was it? The next day? She remembered Christmas night. Sort of.

Most of it.

Her heart felt heavy in her chest.

What happened to Boxing Day? Wasn't Sherlock staying until Boxing Day night? Did that mean it was the 27th now? Did he stay? Was she even conscious for it?

Wearily, Violet finished up in the bathroom, then staggered into the living area, making it as far as the sofa before collapsing on it.

"Lordy, look what the cat dragged in," Dan said, closing a kitchen cabinet door and casually making his way over to her. Violet pressed her eyes shut. "Y'know," he continued, his tone growing serious, "and I said this to Sherlock—why bring me in on your grand plan to fool the world if you're gonna sneak around behind me back?"

"Where's… Sherlock?" Violet croaked.

"Ah, for fuck's sake," Dan muttered. "Did you really get that plastered? You don't remember?"

Without opening her eyes, Violet knitted her brows together. She heard Danny heave out a sigh.

"He had to leave," he replied. "Said he had a text from his brother asking his whereabouts. Thought he'd better leg it in case his phone was being tracked. Called me back from the North to say you were in a right state and shouldn't be left alone. D'you know how hard it is, getting from Manchester to London on Christmas night? Bloody hard, that's what. I'd promised me nephews I'd play the Xbox with them today. They'd have woken up, and I'd have scarpered. Arsehole uncle, going back on his word."

Just shut up, shut up, shut up, Violet internally pleaded, her head throbbing.

"What day is it?" she asked feebly.

"Boxing Day. Christ's sake, Vi. And you've got nowt in the kitchen as usual. I'm going out to the shops. D'you want anything?"

"Water."

She heard Dan moving about the kitchen but daren't open her eyes. The sound of a glass tumbler being placed on the coffee table rattled her head.

"And some Panadol," Dan said. "Make sure you take it. I'm leaving now. Text me if you need anything else."

Violet waited until she heard the front door click shut before she opened her eyes again. Guilt washed through her, competing with the nausea that pressed against her stomach and the back of her throat. She didn't like being taken care of. That meant she'd lost control. Again. Black spots in her memory. But now she was left with an overwhelming sadness. Did she and Sherlock spend a Happy Christmas together? She didn't think so.

#

"Did you really think we wouldn't talk to each other?"

Fuck off.

Sherlock kept his eyes closed as John's voice droned on.

"You told me you were spending Christmas with your family. You told Mycroft you were spending Christmas with us."

I know what I said, Sherlock silently retorted, curling his toes as he lay stretched out, on the sofa.

"And Mrs Hudson said you weren't here."

Good old Hudders.

"So where were you?"

"Bolt hole," he replied.

"Which bolt hole?"

"Does it matter?"

Opening his eyes, he threw a challenging glare in John's direction.

Instead of arguing further, the good doctor reached into his jacket pocket and produced a sample jar, which he placed on the coffee table in front of Sherlock.

"Oh, Christ," Sherlock said, lifting his head a little to see, then allowing it to drop back onto the sofa cushion, once more closing his eyes. "We're not doing that again are we?"

"Yes, we are."

Flapping a disinterested hand in the direction of the offending item, Sherlock added, "All you'll find is the presence of alcohol."

"Alcohol?" John repeated, unconvinced. "You sat in your bolt hole, alone, drinking whiskey on Christmas night?"

"Red wine, actually. I was sharing it with my homeless network. It would've been impolite to refuse otherwise."

"You spent Christmas night getting drunk on red wine with a bunch of tramps?"

"You say that as if it's a bad thing."

"Jesus, Sherlock."

Without looking, Sherlock knew John had turned from him and would be wearily rubbing his brow in a 'what am I going to do with you' manner.

"Happy Christmas, by the way," Sherlock murmured.

#

"I need to make a call," Violet yelled in Mandi's ear over the throbbing house music. "Back in a minute."

The strobing lights disoriented her for a second, but Violet made for the door that led to the secure offices at the back of Kabuki's nightclub, ignoring the turned heads. It was 11:17pm. There was no way she'd be out on the floor when midnight struck.

Danny was just leaving his office when Violet strode along the corridor. She gave him a weary smile.

"All getting too much for you?" he asked.

Violet nodded, her heart tripping at the concern on his face. She'd made her decision. There had been an awkward moment when she'd hastened to unpack the shopping on Boxing Day, discovering a packet of condoms in Dan's purchases. She knew she was doing the right thing.

"Are we really gonna do this now?" Dan asked. "Sherlock's gonna be—"

"He's not calling the shots anymore," Violet interrupted, disappearing into the office. She waited until Danny joined her.

#

Sherlock had heard the New Year's Eve countdown at Kabuki's nightclub. There was still time. He'd wait out the back for her.

Nodding to one of the bouncers, who had recognised the Consulting Detective from when he'd helped Dan previously, Sherlock was able to gain entrance to the club via the back door in preference to walking past the crowd of hopefuls queuing in front of the entrance. He wanted to avoid being recognised at all costs.

What a waste of an evening, he thought, picking his way past the cases and crates of alcohol and bathroom supplies.

Irene Adler remained as elusive as ever. Sherlock had visited the rave party at Monterico House, with no appearance whatsoever of The Woman. How long was he expected to wait for her? He had informed Dan that he'd see Violet again on New Year's Eve. Dan had advised Sherlock that Violet was scheduled to appear at the club for its end of year celebrations. Violet and her _Rise of the Five_ co-star, Timothy Killaney, were supposed to be "the drawcard"—guest DJs and game hosts, or some rubbish.

Sherlock had assumed Violet wouldn't remember her proposal to him.

Murder.

The thought filled him with an uncharacteristic horror. That his girlfriend could've contemplated such a notion—just how stressed was she? Had she harboured secret thoughts about killing James Moriarty for some time now, or had that been a spur of the moment decision on Christmas night, under the influence? He fervently hoped it had been the latter. She had murmured incoherently after her declaration, then had promptly passed out. So it was fortunate (or unfortunate?) that Mycroft had texted him, otherwise he would've had to deal with the fallout Boxing Day morning.

Striding along the corridor towards the office, Sherlock could feel the floor vibrating with the music that filled the rest of the club. From his pocket, he retrieved the secure access card Dan had allocated him, and he stopped in front of the office door.

Unrecognisable sounds came from within. Well, recognisable, but not expected. What was he hearing, exactly?

Still puzzling over this, Sherlock swiped the card along the reader, then pushed the door inwards in one smooth movement.

He stood, frozen in the doorway, not quite comprehending the scene in front of him.

Dan, in disarray—thrusting, his back to the door, trousers crumpled at his feet, shirt hanging loosely underneath his jacket coat. Another person—a woman, obviously, hidden from view—propped up on top of the low drinks cabinet. A pair of legs wrapped around Dan's torso. Manicured fingers threaded into his hair. The pair of them were… panting. Moaning. Gasping.

Sherlock's jaw slackened.

Violet?

He took a step back, lost his grip on the door which swung back towards him.

He retreated further to avoid being hit, until the door shuddered to a close in front of him, leaving him in the corridor.

His heart tripped, then accelerated. Head buzzing, Sherlock continued to stare at the door uncomprehendingly. A poison, as thick and black as crude oil, seeped into his heart.

Violet.

The door was suddenly reefed opened in front of him. A flushed Dan emerged, a sheepish grin lighting one side of his face.

A spark lit the poison now being pumped through Sherlock's veins. A wildfire began to burn in Sherlock's insides.

"S-sorry," Dan said.

Sherlock waited a beat for further explanation.

"Sorry?" he repeated, incredulous, when he was met with silence. That was all the man had to say? Every tendon in his body began to retract. Sherlock's right hand curled into a fist.

"She thought you'd be here earlier," Dan replied, his expression fully brightening into an amiable smile.

Sherlock looked towards the door.

"She…" he began, unable to formulate a coherent argument. It felt as if he'd punctured lung. He lifted a hand to the door handle.

"She went home," Dan continued.

Sherlock blinked. Was this man the worst liar ever?

"Sorry," Dan repeated. Gesturing with a tilt of his head towards the door, he added, "It was all her idea. I knew you'd be mad."

"What!"

Sherlock couldn't believe the gall of the man. He lunged at Dan, grabbed him by his lapels and thrust him backwards into the wall.

"I'm more than mad," he said between gritted teeth.

"Woah!" Danny said, throwing his hands up in protest. "I couldn't persuade her otherwise. You know how she is, once she gets an idea in her head."

"Why!" Sherlock raged. He couldn't even think of a reasonable question behind this turn of events.

Disgusted, he let Dan go. He had to confront her. What could she possibly have to say, though. He'd dropped the access card in his rush to maime Corlionne. Retrieving it from the carpetted floor, he swiped once more against the reader.

"Oh, hey, I wouldn't go in—"

Despite Dan's protest, Sherlock pushed the door inwards.

Violet, her back to the door, squeaked in surprise as she pulled up dress straps over bare shoulders, not quite meeting the gaze of the intruder in the doorway. Except…

That wasn't Violet.

"I'm…" Sherlock began. — _Sorry_ , he meant to finish, as he pulled the door closed.

"That's…" he stammered. "That's not Violet."

"Oh, fucking hell!" Dan exclaimed. "Did you think that was our Vi?"

The remnants of rage still controlled his body, his thought processes. Once again, Sherlock took hold of Dan Corlionne by the lapels, shoving him roughly against the wall.

"Where is she? What the fuck were you doing in there? Are you mad or stupid or dim-witted? You can't cheat on Violet Hunter. If you've blown our cover, so help me—"

"Wait, wait, wait," Dan protested. "It was Vi. Her idea. We broke up. We were going to do it tonight, before midnight. She's just left. Everybody would know she weren't there for the countdown. This was all a part of her plan. I knew you'd be angry about it, but she wouldn't take no for an answer."

Sherlock slowly released his hold on the nightclub manager.

"Why?" he asked, his eyes narrowing. His heart continued to beat erratically in his chest. Was this a plan of Violet's to dump her security detail so she'd be free to… what…? Murder James Moriarty? "What plan?"

"To break up with me," Dan replied.

"Why?"

"Because… Well, first she felt bad." A flush crept across Dan's face. "She found a… a packet of condoms I'd bought. Y'know. For New Year's Eve. There's this girl, right. I'd been mad about her for ages but she never showed she were interested before. But ever since I'd been dating a… y'know… a celebrity, she's been flirting, right. So I thought, on New Year's Eve, I'd get me end away—"

"Spare me," Sherlock said, wincing.

"Well, Vi hated the fact that I haven't been able to date other women all this time. And you and Vi will be back together eventually. She wants to make it a plausible story. Her heart's all over the place, or something. The press love that kind of thing. And to be perfectly honest, I think she needs time to be alone, mate."

Adrenaline still amped Sherlock's heart-rate, thoughts and emotions. He abruptly released Danny, stepped back and raked a hand through his curls, mind adrift.

What would this mean, though… Violet Hunter single again? Had the presence of a boyfriend been enough of a deterrent for Moriarty and his henchmen to stay away from Violet? But why would they need to go near her again if Violet and Sherlock had severed their connection? What would be the point in threatening her?

Why had Sherlock appointed a bodyguard, then, if there had been no imminent threat?

Because she needed someone to confide in. That's the reason. Remember?

Sherlock couldn't think here. The repetitive thud of the nightclub music was interfering with his synapses.

"She's probably home by now," Dan volunteered.

Sherlock eyed him critically. The man had failed to tuck his shirt back into his trousers. Probably keen to get at it again. Get his "end away".

"I'll talk to you later," Sherlock said. He strode the length of the corridor, making for the back entrance.

#

Sherlock tugged on the window, but there was something preventing the glass from sliding across. He peered in at the track. Moron! Dan had actually taken his advice and wedged a length of pine in the gap to prevent the window from sliding. Now Sherlock had no way in!

He knocked lightly and waited. After counting to five, he tried again. But if Violet had fallen into a heavy (and drunken?) sleep, there was a good chance she wouldn't hear the knocking. He tried once more for luck.

#

Sherlock felt particularly wired. He'd consumed three cups of caffeine since returning from Chelsea, and the nicotine patches weren't helping. He'd sat up all night, aimlessly roaming his Mind Palace to no avail, and now it was morning. Didn't even make it as far as the bedroom. Tapping his bare feet on the ground in front of his armchair, he contemplated another brew. Still dressed in his attire from the night before, sans jacket and shoes, Sherlock pushed himself out of his armchair.

The front door clicked shut.

Sherlock spun around, straining to listen.

Step, step, step, creak.

He rolled his eyes.

John. Never quite got the hang of avoiding that creaky step.

See! Still got it!

His mind was fully functioning! So why couldn't he make headway on this case?

But wait!

Another step, overlaying the first, then a tap, step, step, tap, in between.

Oh, Christ!

Mycroft!

Sherlock about-turned, made for his armchair and sank down into it. The bottle of whiskey, freed from its top-shelf confinement, was hidden behind the kettle. So near, yet so far! This was going to be painful.

John appeared first, stopping in the doorway to glance at the sofa, before his roaming eyes alighted on Sherlock by the fireplace.

"Let me guess," Sherlock said, deducing his friend's grim expression. "A New Year's Day intervention."

"Yep. Bloody right it is," John replied. He stood to one side, pulling the door open wider as the other busy-body materialised through it.

The British Government glided effortlessly into the room, looking for all the world like a man who had been rudely woken in the early hours by minions beckoning him to study CCTV footage.

John moved to the living room table, grabbed a chair and placed it facing the fireplace and Sherlock. He sat down, quite business-like, hands on knees, waiting as Mycroft made his way to the armchair opposite Sherlock.

Sherlock slouched further down into his chair, propping his head up with one disinterested hand. If they were going to be all formal about this, then he felt compelled to appear as casual as possible.

"You were seen entering and exiting Kabuki Pirates nightclub via the back entrance around midnight," Mycroft began, without so much as a 'Good morning'. "A location where Violet Hunter was making an appearance."

Sherlock huffed an exaggerated sigh.

"I'm working on a case," he drawled.

"What case?" John asked.

Sherlock raised his brows.

"Haven't you been paying attention? No, of course not. You've been too busy poking people's bodies with instruments of torture."

"It's called 'working as a General Practitioner'," John said through gritted teeth. "It's my day job."

"The point is," Mycroft interrupted.

Feeling brattish, Sherlock remarked, "Oh, do you have one?"

"The point is… Brother Mine… you've been on a downward spiral ever since you and Ms Hunter parted company."

"Parted company," Sherlock repeated derisively.

"Your continual intoxication is a cause for concern."

"As is boring people to death with pointless lectures."

"Sherlock," John warned.

Mycroft sat taller, lifting his chin which only served to make his beady eyes beadier.

"As we've done on previous occasions over the years, I'm allocating a minder."

"Oh, dear God."

"And the Watsons have kindly volunteered."

"Mary will be along shortly," John added.

"Oh, good," Sherlock said, brightening. He pushed himself out of his seat and quipped, "Just like the good old days. Let me know when it's dinner time. I've got a hankering for fish and chips."

He made to vacate the living room for the kitchen when Mycroft, also rising from his chair, called him back.

"And we'll be instituting a curfew."

Sherlock stopped in his tracks.

"Why?"

"Even with your rapidly deteriorating brain cells, surely the reason is obvious. And what's more…" With the tip of his umbrella, Mycroft indicated along the hallway as if casting a spell. "Your bedroom door is shut. So if you weren't stalking Ms Hunter last night, or frequenting your usual haunts for substances to abuse, I gather you were trawling the nightclub for new conquests?"

Puzzled, Sherlock directed his own gaze towards his bedroom. The door was, indeed, shut.

Curious.

His mind ticked over.

The last time he'd had an intruder in his bedroom was a few days after his return from abroad. He'd been chasing Irene Adler and she had enjoyed eluding him. Had she done the same last night? Lured him to the rave club, only to end up lying in wait for him in his flat?

"Ah… excuse me," Sherlock said distractedly, making a cautious bid for his bedroom.

"Sherlock," John called.

Sherlock made it all the way to his bedroom door without being rugby-tackled by an irate ex-army doctor.

Heart hammering, he twisted the doorknob and gently pushed open the door.

This could all be over, he thought, a surge of hope making his heart feel buoyant. The data on Adler's phone could contain enough information to bring down James Moriarty. And she was right here, in his bedroom!

In the dim lighting of the room, Sherlock could barely make out the crumpled figure in his bed. He quietly closed the door behind him, then bent low, switching on the bedside lamp.

He blinked a couple of times, his eyes deceiving him into thinking it was Violet who lay with her back to him, wearing one of his pyjama shirts.

But then the figure stirred, rolled over, and…

"Fucking hell," Sherlock muttered. But his heart tripped in delight. "You can't be here!"

"Sherlock," Violet murmured sleepily.

In an instant, Sherlock was upon her. Arms twined around his neck. Warm, luscious lips met his. A great weight was lifted from him. Violet was here, not in Dan's office. Not with her legs wrapped around the nightclub manager's torso—not that Sherlock still thought that, but last night's nightclub office discovery had appeared like a ghostly picture in his Mind Palace, as if he'd been staring at a bright image for far too long and its negative was left rendered on his retina.

With great reluctance, he eased out of their kiss.

"Why are you here?" he asked, furrowing his brow.

"Because you told Danny I had to keep my window secure from now on, so I didn't think you'd be able to sneak into my flat." Clever girl. "And if you came to the club, Tim might have spotted you."

"Tim?" he asked. As in Timothy Killaney, her co-star? What did that have to do with anything.

Violet's eyes widened minutely, as if she'd spoken out of turn.

"Besides," she scrambled to add, creases appearing in her brow, "we need to have a serious talk. I think you need help. Have you been out all night?"

"Sorry, what? Help?"

Sherlock straightened up, allowing Violet to pull herself up to a sitting position.

"You… on this case," she explained. "I don't think—"

Tentative knocks on the bedroom door interrupted Violet's explanation.

"Sherlock?" came John Watson's voice.

"Is that…?" Violet whispered.

"John," Sherlock finished for her. "And Mycroft's out there, too. We're having an intervention, apparently. I've been drowning my sorrows a little too much."

"That's what I'm talking about," Violet continued in a hushed voice. "So, let him in."

"What? … Why?"

"Let him in. I'm tired of this."

"Sherlock?" John said again. "Everything all right?"

"Let him in," Violet repeated. "Open the door."

Sherlock heaved out a sigh, then rose from the bed. Opening the door, he found a concerned John Watson. In the living room, Mycroft stood beside John's old armchair, regarding them both.

"Is she here, then?" John said. He mouthed the name, "Irene Adler".

"Brilliant deduction," Sherlock said. "I was thinking along the same lines myself." He gestured towards his bed and opened the door a little wider, in a bid to invite John inside.

John puffed out his chest, as if steeling himself for the encounter, then took a step forward into the room.

His jaw slackened when his gaze caught sight of Violet Hunter, sitting up in Sherlock's bed, wearing one of his shirts, and smiling up at their visitor.

"Violet," John said, his voice soaked with a heavy dose of incredulity.

Violet leapt out of bed, flung her arms around the stunned doctor, and said, "I've missed you all!"

Awkwardly, John patted her back, and said, "We've… er… missed you… t-too."

Violet eased back and said, "Sorry. Not really dressed for the occasion. Sherlock, could I wear your dressing gown?"

Sherlock exhaled sharply, reached behind the bedroom door and handed Violet the dressing gown that hung there. Her expression morphed into one of disgust.

"Not that one!"

It was his favourite blue dressing gown. What was wrong with it?

Oh. It was the gown Irene Adler had been wearing the night Violet walked in on them. He'd forgotten he was supposed to discard it!

"It's been washed," he said. "Dry-cleaned, even."

"What's going on?" John asked. "I mean… Are you two…"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Of course John would conclude Sherlock had "reunited" with Violet in the club, just like they had done after their previous separation.

Thankfully, Violet—albeit reluctantly—began donning Sherlock's gown.

"I'm here because Sherlock needs help with our case," she said.

"What case?" John predictably asked.

Tying the dressing gown sash around herself, Violet made for the door.

"And we need Mycroft, too," she said.

Sherlock wearily followed John and Violet out of the room, bowing his head—the condemned being led to the gallows.

"Ms Hunter," Mycroft bid Violet by way of a greeting. The quirk of one eyebrow signalled his surprise at the actress's reappearance in 221B.

Violet, for her own part, was far more enthusiastic about their reunion. She grabbed Mycroft in a hug, held fast, and said, "I've missed you the most!"

Seeing the look of horror on his brother's face made Sherlock's morning all the more brighter. He couldn't have asked for a more fitting final request before his execution.

"Well, this is a surprise," Mycroft commented unnecessarily, stiffly patting Violet's back until she released him. "Our mother will be delighted."

"Oh, it's all top secret," Violet replied. "Sherlock," she said, throwing a glance behind her. "Put the kettle on would you? We've got work to do."

What was going on here? Was Violet high? Her bubbliness within minutes of waking was hugely out-of-character for Violet Hunter, his girlfriend and actress.

Although, for Violet Hunter, She Who Plots Murder, perhaps this was business as usual.

"Why don't we all sit down," Violet said, taking her own seat in Sherlock's chair.

Sherlock dutifully grabbed the kettle and began filling it with water. The others waited in silence—John reclaiming his position on the dining chair, and Mycroft in John's old armchair. It seemed oddly surreal to Sherlock that Violet was commanding the three reasonably assertive males in the room and taking up prime position in the most superior male's chair.

After returning the kettle to its holder and switching it on, Sherlock leant against the bookshelf nearest the entrance to the living room.

"It's probably too late to ask this now, Mycroft," he said, "but is my flat secure enough for this conversation?'

"Despite not knowing exactly what 'this conversation' pertains to, I can confirm that indeed it is."

Of course he could. The pompous arse had minions sneaking in and out of 221B for weeks. As if Sherlock hadn't noticed.

"Because if not—Violet," Sherlock added, looking pointedly at his girlfriend, "our cover's been blown."

"Oh, shush, Sherlock. I made sure nobody saw me enter. I am the most talented actor you know, after all."

She made the last remark with a hint of bitterness in her voice. Sherlock filed that away for future examination.

"You mean you didn't arrive here together?" Mycroft asked.

"I had no idea Violet was in my bedroom," Sherlock replied. "I've been sitting out here since returning from… the club." No need to tell John and Mycroft that he had unsuccessfully attempted to break into Violet's flat in Chelsea.

"What's all this about?" John asked Violet. "What cover?"

"Sherlock and I never broke up," she began.

"Dear Lord," Mycroft muttered.

Sherlock bowed his head and scratched at his scalp. What a way to start the new year!

 _ **#**_

 _ **Author's Note:**_

 _ **Unfortunately, FFNET doesn't have a like button. I'm not going to know if you enjoy my updates and want me to keep uploading chapters if you don't ever review! A couple of words in the review box… that's all it takes! Thank you!**_

 _ **elbafo**_

 _ **x**_


	25. The Worst Thing You Can Do

_**Author's Note: Apologies— I forgot to add the month to the previous sections. It's currently New Year's Day. Many thanks to those of you reviewed the last chapter! Your enthusiasm and support mean a lot!**_

 _ **ATM I'm participating in NaNoWriMo, so I'm alternating writing this story and an original piece. This means I'm ahead by two chapters, which is the reason for this quick update! Hopefully, I can keep up the pace!**_

 **Chapter 25 - The Worst Thing You Can Do**

 _ **January 2014**_

"Ah… sorry?" John asked.

He had that pinched look about his face that indicated he was several degrees away from boiling point. It was a good thing this particular expression was directed at Violet and not Sherlock. Although, Violet began wringing her hands, which indicated she was now becoming agitated.

Dammit! Now Sherlock would have to step in. Since he was equally culpable for the deception, John's ire would be directed at him! All those weeks of John worrying about his best friend descending into a self-destructive hell-hole. It was a trick, John! Smoke and mirrors!

"We had to fake it," Violet began, "because one of my friends…" Here, she faltered, and she looked to Sherlock for help. His heart sank.

"The man who threatened Violet initially," he added, walking forward into the room, "the criminal mastermind, if you can remember Violet's unexpected return to London from Australia—he actually carried out his threat. One of Violet's closest friends was murdered."

"Christ, Violet," John said. "I'm sorry to hear that. What friend was that? Are you okay?"

Violet gave John a grateful smile.

"Her name was Emily. We used to share a flat together in Manchester, years ago."

"So…" John said, furrowing his brow in thought. Redirecting his gaze to Sherlock, he said, "That was only going to happen if you investigated him—this criminal mastermind. And if you didn't know his identity…?"

Sherlock turned to Violet.

"Are we revealing his name in this… this trust thing you've got going here?"

"Yes," Violet said, through moist eyes. "If Mycroft and John are going to help you, then we need to tell them… everything." She rubbed her nose with a knuckle after she spoke, a sure sign of deception. Why? Why tell a lie at the same time as revealing an intention to tell the truth? Unless she was going to keep something from them. But what?

Sherlock glanced at Mycroft. His brother's gaze was fixed firmly on Violet. His eyes had narrowed to slits. He had noted her deception, too.

Sherlock dismissed the gesture as a hangover from the lie they'd told the rest of the world, because what else could she possibly be keeping from them. He once more addressed John, who had twisted around in his seat when Sherlock started talking.

"James Moriarty," he said.

"Moriarty," Mycroft repeated. "Why do I know that name?"

Violet bowed her head and smoothed a hand over her forehead. Sherlock surmised she was remembering she had instigated the investigation into Moriarty in the first place.

"I had you check out a few things," Sherlock replied. "In the film industry."

"Oh… yes," Mycroft said, wrinkling his nose a little in distaste.

"You know how I like to research anyone of significance," Sherlock went on. Of significance to Violet, he thought to himself, but didn't want to voice out loud, in case it triggered his girlfriend into having another meltdown about her involvement in the death of her friend.

"Who's this?" John asked.

"James Moriarty is the Chief Executive Office of Etienne-Lumiere studios," Mycroft said.

He's feeling tired today, Sherlock thought. His brother hadn't even attempted to haul out his brown notebook, which he often used as a prop to appear more omniscient, when he recited the man's credentials.

Sherlock added, "I assume you had your people run a cursory check through the usual databases. Moriarty is like a spider at the centre of a web. One tug on one tiny strand was instantly detected. Thinking I was investigating him, he came good on his threat."

"So… why the… break up?" John asked, with a tilt of a his head.

"To distance Violet from Sherlock so no further threats could be carried out," Mycroft replied, the thin line of his lips indicating his disapproval. "Obviously."

"Correct," Sherlock said.

"While you…. what?" Mycroft asked. "Stop shaving and start celebrating Christmases with riff-raff?"

"What?" Violet asked, looking offended.

"He doesn't mean you," Sherlock scrambled to add. "I led them to believe I spent Christmas with a homeless person."

"So that was another bloody lie?" John asked. "You spent Christmas with… who? Violet?"

"Yes."

Both Mycroft and John sighed in varying degrees of exasperation.

"So it didn't occur to you that we could be trusted with this information?" John asked.

"It was important we be believed. Having those closest to us—"

"Didn't bloody trust us," John murmured, shaking his head.

When the front door slammed shut downstairs, they all focussed on the light treads upon the staircase. Sherlock saw Violet stiffen, poised to flee, but John said, "That'll be—"

"Mary," Sherlock finished.

"Happy New Year," Mary said, striding in and seeing Sherlock first. She went to give Sherlock a hug when she spied Violet rising from her position in front of the fireplace.

"Violet!" Mary exclaimed. Instead of hugging Sherlock, she side-stepped him and enveloped Violet instead. "You're here! And in Sherlock's robe. Well… I knew you and Sherlock couldn't have broken up."

"Sorry, what?" John remarked.

Sherlock chuckled. Trust Mary to have made such a deduction.

"You knew?" Violet asked.

"It seemed obvious what had happened."

"We never had this discussion," John said to Mary.

"Well, I knew there'd be a reason we weren't supposed to know," Mary went on. "Sherlock would tell us in his own time. We do know now, though, don't we?" She looked from one to the other.

"As of five minutes ago," John muttered.

"So what's changed?" Mary asked.

"Sherlock needs help," Violet replied.

Sherlock exhaled deeply.

"I don't need help," he said, carefully enunciating his words.

"What progress have you made?" Violet asked.

"Well, if this is all there is to know," Mycroft said, rising from his seat, "I'll take my leave."

"You can't leave now," Sherlock protested.

"Since you're not in danger of self-destruction by alcohol over-consumption, my presence is not required."

"Aren't you interested in Moriarty's downfall?"

"I don't find him important at all. All I hear is: a C.O.O. of a major film studio threatened Violet in some way. I've never heard of the man, nor his connection to anything worthwhile."

"When we brought down those networks in Munich and Prague, he heard about it. Moriarty. That means some of the intel Irene Adler keeps on her phone relates to organisations Moriarty is either in business with or somehow controls. Find Adler's phone; bring down Moriarty. And you know the information she has on her phone will have significance to this government and possibly foreign governments you're currently propping up. Now, sit down!"

"Or there's another way to Jim," Violet said.

All eyes were directed upon her.

"How?" Sherlock asked.

"Through Jake."

"No. No way. You're not going anywhere near that man."

"He gave me intelligence about Sebastian Moran, remember. Moran was the middle man, between Jim and Jake. Now that Moran's in prison, there is no middle man. There can't be. There never was anybody else. Jake now has a direct connection to Jim. If I can convince Jake to give him up—"

"No. Far too dangerous."

"Sounds like a good plan to me," said Mary.

They all began talking at once. Sherlock looked around him. This was getting out of hand. Yes, maybe he needed assistance, as in a live skull or two upon which to air his own thoughts, but ideas on how to proceed? And with Violet offering to talk to that loser in Manchester again? Violet putting herself in danger? He felt a spike of adrenalin.

This was going to get messy, and their little conversations and remarks were cluttering his brain.

"All right. Everybody out," he said.

"What?" said John.

"With pleasure," Mycroft said, making a bid for the door.

"Sherlock," John bid him.

"I'm giving you time to mull it over," Sherlock said, waving a dismissive hand. "Everything. I can't think while you're all vomitting your inferior thoughts. Go. Leave! We'll talk later."

"Yeah, thanks," John said. Turning to Mary, he said, "We can't discuss it at home."

"Yes, we can," she replied.

The pair slipped through the door and out onto the landing while Sherlock held the door open for them.

"We don't know if our house is bugged or not," John said as they took to the stairs.

"It isn't," Mary retorted.

"How do you know that?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he closed the door to the landing. John and Mary continued arguing about the status of their flat as they descended.

Alone at last, Sherlock turned to Violet who was still standing in front of the fireplace.

She was standing tall, a firm expression on her face.

Desire spiked through him. But why? Because Violet was once again proposing to put herself in harm's way? Because she was working on a case with him? She was here in his flat wearing his dressing gown?

"The kitchen door," Violet said, the beginnings of a smile playing on her lips.

She knew what he was thinking!

As he locked the kitchen door, Violet brushed past him on her way to the bedroom. He didn't let her get that far.

#

"A tour of the North?" Mandi repeated, wrinkling her nose.

"Yes," Violet said, pushing off her heels and rubbing at her stockinged feet. "But just radio, and a couple of nightclub appearances. Kabuki's, maybe."

Mandi sat across from her, consulting the calendar on the iPad.

"Kabuki's? As in, your Jake?"

Violet hummed in agreement.

"You can't fit that in," Mandi said.

"Make it fit," Violet said firmly. "After _Improbity_ wraps, but before I leave for New York."

"Hang on. That's only three—"

"This is important. Cathy had a few options for me," she said, speaking of _Improbity's_ PR agent. "Instead of next month…"

Mandi tutted.

"They can't organise this all at the last minute."

"Just Manchester then. Forget Liverpool and Sheffield and—"

"Fine."

"I want to do this before I start filming _Arthur Avenue_. I could be away for… months."

"I said 'fine'."

Violet's heart sank at the thought of her impending relocation to New York. She'd have no contact whatsoever with Sherlock. No emails, text messages or phone-calls. And definitely no sneaking in and out of each other's flats. But if she could get the ball rolling on Moriarty's destruction before leaving for America, perhaps she and Sherlock could be back together again sooner, and he could visit her in New York. Filming abroad wouldn't seem like such a lonely prospect then.

And if Moriarty showed his face before Sherlock brought about his downfall via his networks? Well, Violet had a much more permanent plan in mind for the bastard.

#

"Where did you say Mary went?" Sherlock asked, shrugging on his coat.

John was waiting for him by the front door.

"Where are you two off to?" Mrs Hudson said, wearing bright pink rubber gloves, scouring brush in hand, and dripping suds onto her lino.

"Out," Sherlock said.

"At this hour?"

They exited onto the street, with John repeating that Mary was visiting friends in Donegal. Sherlock didn't like that idea. Why was Mary suddenly "visiting friends" when he and the Watsons were supposed to be working on a case together? Was there trouble in the Watson household? Was John jealous that Sherlock often preferred Mary's theories over John's? By John's grim expression, he didn't like the scenario either.

But Sherlock needed Mary. She could help him choose an engagement ring!

"So we're just going to visit a few clubs and sit at the bar drinking?" John said, as Sherlock waved down a cab.

"That's the plan."

His phone bleeped with a message, and he drew it out of his pocket.

"Sounds like the plan of thousands of twenty-somethings around London," John quipped.

"Yes," Sherlock drawled distractedly as he looked at the photo he received on his phone. His mouth quirked into a smile. "But Irene Adler doesn't have her eyes on a twenty-something," he said, quickly pocketing his phone. "She wants me. And I have to let her know I'm available."

"Couldn't you just take out a Lonely Hearts ad? Tweet it or something."

"I could. She does have her own hashtag, after all."

John emitted a humourless laugh as they both climbed into the back of the cab.

But this was the game Irene Adler liked to play. And now she'd sent him a message. This may be a game Sherlock was willing to play as well.

#

The corridor appeared narrower and the carpet threadbare and colourless, the lighting more foreboding than she remembered. She was stone-cold sober, though, a state she had rarely existed in years ago. It looked like Kabuki's in London, but the Manchester version felt like they were striding down the corridor in a dream from the past.

"All right, Vi?" Danny asked, before he held out his keycard and swiped at the reader.

Violet nodded and held her breath when Dan pushed open the door into Jake Venucci's office.

The man himself was leaning against the desk facing the door, mobile phone in hand. He looked up when they entered.

"Well, well, well," he said, straightening up and pocketing his phone. "Never thought I'd see this. Violet Hunter, bang on time."

"Hiya," she said.

"All right, then?"

Violet met him halfway across the floor, her expression softening into a smile. She didn't resist when he embraced her, didn't turn her head when he pressed his lips to hers.

"Deny him nothing," Sherlock had advised her. "Except… perhaps… another proposal of marriage… and, sex, of course… snogging… the odd grope, here and there. You get the picture."

"I know, Sherlock!" she'd replied.

Violet eased back, though, because the situation was awkward. Dan stood rooted to the spot by the doorway. Both men were her exes now. She was clocking up quite a few, it seemed!

Fake ones as well…

"You look… much better," she said, raising a hand to Jake's cheek. She summoned up a misty-eyed expression as well, while she smoothed a thumb over his stubble.

The last time she'd seen Jake he had been in hospital, battered and bruised—the victim of a punishing assault by assailants operating on Sebastian Moran's orders. By playing on his emotions, she'd been able to get information out of Jake that led to Moran's arrest.

"Still carry the fucking scars, though, yeah?" Jake replied. "And one never healed prop'ly. I think somebody leant on it." His eyes glinted with mischief.

"Something to remember me by."

"I don't need a scar to remember you by."

Behind them, Dan cleared his throat.

"Hey, sunshine," Jake said to Danny over Violet's shoulder. "Why don't you get yourself a drink? You remember the way."

"Fine right here, I am," Dan replied, readjusting his stance. "If it's all the same to you."

Violet bristled at the invisible divide that separated the men who had once been so close.

"Well, it's not all the fucking same to me. What I'm saying is," Jake added, "fuck off and give us some privacy, yeah?"

Violet heaved out a sigh.

"Vi?" Dan said.

"What, you taking orders from our Vi, now?" Jake asked.

"Jake," Violet said in exasperation.

"I'm not here as an employee," Dan said. "To either of you."

"Danny, I'm fine," Violet told him. "Just give us a few minutes. Please."

Violet reasoned Dan had wanted to stay because, firstly, he was her security detail, as allocated by Sherlock, and secondly, he'd witnessed the end result of "meetings" between Violet and Jake on previous occasions.

After Danny had left, Jake remarked, "Jesus fucking Christ. Give him his own patch down south and he's Lord Muck."

"I thought you two were fine."

"We are fucking fine. If we weren't fine, him and me, he'd be sunk at the bottom of the Mersey. Know what I'm sayin'? He's part of me crew. I've always looked after him. He's still me number one lad, Dan."

Violet rolled her eyes. Posturing, that's what they were both doing.

"Are you all sorted out there?" Jake asked. "She showed you the ropes, then, Meg?"

Meg was the DJ Violet was 'assisting' that evening.

"Yes, all sorted. So, I'm heading off. Just wanted to ask you something."

"Yeah, what?"

"Emily."

"What about her?"

"I want to know what part you played in her death? At what point did you give her up? Because her name could've only come from you."

"All right. Okay. I can see you're mad."

"Did you have anything to do with it? Because this is your patch. Jim was in Australia or the U.S. at the time. And it's not as if he gets his hands dirty anyway. Did he order you to make the hit? Did you give her the drugs? Mix the speedball? Who was it? Did you pay them?"

"Fucking hell, Vi. Let us get a word in, yeah?"

He turned from her, but not before she saw a sense of defeat marring his features. He raked a hand through his hair before he turned back.

"It was either you or Emily."

"What do you mean?"

"With him. Moriarty. He wanted to threaten him—your fuckin' cunt of a boyfriend—with _your_ life. Sherlock Holmes. 'Cause it's always about him, yeah?"

Violet recoiled a little at the ferocity of Jake's words, but quickly recomposed herself.

"I made Moriarty think it would be better to threaten one of _your_ friends." Jake shook his head as he recounted his story. Violet listened in stunned silence. "Because you would have to convince him. Your boyfriend. And he liked that, Moriarty. It'd create conflict, he said, between you and… and… Sherlock." It had just struck Violet, that Jake hated saying Sherlock's name out loud. "Drama," Jake went on. "Moriarty loves it. You would insist he stop what he was doing, the great detective, and he wouldn't give a fuck about your friends. Maybe he'd stop, maybe he wouldn't, but it was the conflict Moriarty wanted, more than someone to threaten. Do you see?"

"Y-you traded my life for Emily's?"

"Why wouldn't I? This is you we're talking about, versus some smackhead tart who'd be dead inside a year anyway."

Violet pushed down the loathing she felt for Jake's words.

"And what about Mandi and my dad?" she asked.

"He wanted three people—he said ordinary people like the number three. I gave up Riley, but he weren't having it. Said one drug addict was enough. He wanted a family member—that's where your dad comes in—and he reckoned your P.A. was worth something to you. Your Mandi."

Was it possible to hate Jim even more than she already did?

"So who did it?"

"Who did what?"

"Had her killed."

Jake shook his head and avoided her gaze. He looked everywhere else but at her.

Something boiled inside her, filling every vein with a hate so venomous, her hands began to tremble.

"Drug addicts will do anything for money," Jake said. "Even our Riley."

Violet lunged for him, talons raised. Jake fended her off, grabbing her wrists and shouting at her to stop. The door flew open. As Jake pushed her up against the wall and yelled at her to "calm the fuck down!" she saw Dan, filling the doorway.

"I've got it sorted!" Jake growled back at Danny. "You so much as come in here, I'll have you, too!"

Violet felt the tension drain away as Jake let go of her wrists. Danny checked her over and Violet gave him an almost imperceptible nod. He backed out, closing the door before him.

Violet's eyes stung with tears. Chest heaving, she tried to maintain a steady breath, mentally kicking herself for losing it. This wasn't why she had come tonight.

Propping himself against the wall as he leant over her, Jake said, "One day you and I will stop doing this crap, won't we? One day we'll be… all right."

"That will be the day you stop doing other people's bidding."

Jake shoved off the wall and stalked away from her.

"I work for meself," he muttered.

Violet could feel the heat lessening in her cheeks.

"I have to go," she said, her voice hollow. But she wasn't finished yet.

Making her way to the door, she tried to maintain an even tone as she asked, "How will you murder my dad and Mandi?"

"Oh, don't be so fucking stupid."

"It's a valid question."

Jake shrugged.

"It won't come to that, though, will it?" he said, approaching her. "You and Sherlock Holmes, you're finished. And Moriarty's done with him."

"But he's not done with me."

Jake regarded her for a moment. "What do you mean?"

Violet swallowed.

"He's controlling my career. I don't have a say in the films I make, so Mandi and my dad are still under threat."

Jake slowly shook his head.

"I'm not gonna order a hit on your dad, Vi. Or Mand. What do you think I am? Em—she was…"

"Expendable?" Violet held back her rage. "We're both trapped, you and I. Only I'm determined to do something about it." She allowed her words to sink in, before she added, "If Jim Moriarty didn't exist, we… we'd both be free."

Violet pulled on the door handle and escaped into the hallway where Dan was waiting for her. She hoped she'd planted the seed.

#

 _ **February 2014**_

"Are you sure, Sherlock?" Lestrade asked him. "Because this could result in the man's arrest."

"Look at the bruising," Sherlock said, pointing to the body laying sprawled out in front of them. "Get him to the lab."

Turning on his heels, Sherlock stalked away.

What a waste of time. No more than a five.

In twenty minutes, he was home again. Why did he even bother leaving his flat?

Sherlock closed the image he'd received. The third from Irene Adler.

He stared at the date on his phone as he sat in his armchair by the fire. He had failed her, and now here he was, thousands of kilometres away and unable to contact her. His earlier googling had confirmed for him what he already knew: Violet Hunter had commenced filming _Arthur Avenue_ in New York. She was spotted on location in Manhattan's Little Italy.

The date was the 2nd of February — Violet's 26th birthday. And he had no way of sending her a gift, let alone a birthday message. Mycroft had actually scoffed when Sherlock asked if he had any contacts in Washington D.C. who could just nip up to New York City and deliver a package.

Sherlock scratched at his stubble. He'd shaven for a week or two in the new year, but several weeks of inactivity had him reversing back to this scruffy appearance again. Cases were genuinely few and far between.

He'd mentioned buying an engagement ring to Mary, and, to his surprise, she'd laughed.

"Imagine spotting Sherlock Holmes shopping in Hatton Garden."

"I thought you'd buy it for me."

She'd rubbed his arm, a sympathetic look on her face, before adding, "Let's just concentrate on the case for now. You and Violet can talk about the future when you're back together, yeah?"

Mary had made him feel like an ordinary human being, distracted by emotions. Perhaps she was right.

She bid him to delve further into the Lauren Myrtle case, going so far as to check into both Lauren's and Daisy's past employment histories. They had nothing in common, one being an actress on British soil, the other American. Lauren was much older than Daisy—her pre-acting industry credits included working as an au pair, whereas Daisy had worked in an office supplies store, behind the print-on-demand counter.

If only he could think, Sherlock would work out what to do. He felt less and less like himself.

Deciding to go undercover once more in another nightclub—Irene Adler's message to him surely meant something—he rummaged through his wardrobe to find the black boots Violet had him wear with jeans, once upon a time.

At the bottom of the wardrobe, he found a plastic shopping bag. Strange. Clearly not anything he'd ever stowed there. Sitting on his bed, he idly picked through it, thinking it may have been items Violet had bought one day and had promptly forgotten.

The items, however, were clearly not recently purchased. They were worn and random: a small silk purse, with a procession of elephants embroidered on it, the thread hanging loose in some parts; a blue nylon scarf, several pens, a butter knife, a handful of merchant loyalty cards and finally a plastic container with what looked like various packets of herbal teas.

Puzzled, Sherlock looked over all items again as they lay spread out on his bed. Who on earth did these mismatched items belong to?

And then a thought struck him. The silk purse, slung diagonally across a world-weary shoulder.

Lana!

His heart tripped a little.

When he'd gone to the morgue to identify the body of his homeless network lieutenant, Molly had presented him with this bag of her possessions and he had thrown it into his wardrobe closet upon returning home, without a second thought. Lana used to shove the twenty or sometimes fifty pound notes Sherlock would pay her into the silk purse.

"That means this…" _Isn't herbal tea._ Sherlock finished the sentence in silent reverence.

Opening the plastic container, he found that the sachets were several varieties of synthetic drugs: cannabinoids, opioids, and stimulants.

Sherlock swiftly rose from his bed and closed his bedroom door.

Upon returning, he flicked through the sachets, carefully reading the labels of each one. Of course he knew the chemicals they contained. He had studied the varieties available for purchase when he was working the Spice case. He had wanted Violet to buy samples from the head shops so he could analyse them in the lab, but she had refused.

Of course he could always…

No, of course not. Stupid idea.

But…

He wasn't feeling one hundred percent. He was only operating at half-capacity. What if he could give himself a boost?

#


	26. I Need to Know What State You're In

**Chapter 26 - I Need to Know What State You're In**

 _ **March 2014**_

Disguised in a hooded jumper and old trackpants, Violet entered 221B using the key she'd never returned. She could hear Mrs Hudson hoovering out the back. She would've been here yesterday, the day she'd arrived back in London, if it hadn't been for Mandi organising Spencer and Priyal to throw her a little welcome home party.

It had been two months since she'd seen Sherlock. Filming in New York, brief stints to L.A. — a regular on U.S. talk shows and convention panels— she lived a world away. She was only back in London for two weeks before she'd have to travel the Asia-Pacific promoting _The Rise of the Five_. Six countries in ten days. Madness!

Violet swiftly ascended, avoiding the creaky step as she did so. Both doors to the landing were shut. Testing the door-knob to the living room, she found it was locked as well. Was there anyone home? She couldn't hear anything. Apart from their enthusiastic shenanigans of the past, she didn't know any reason Sherlock locked the doors. Should she knock?

She let herself in.

And there he was—asleep on the sofa with his back to the door. Her heart tripped with joy at seeing Sherlock lying so peacefully.

Violet swiftly entered, locking the door again behind her.

"Sherlock?"

He didn't stir.

"Sherlock?"

He remained still, so Violet perched on the coffee table in front of him. Resting a light hand on his shoulder, she tried to rouse him.

Sherlock slowly rolled onto his back and opened his eyes, wincing as he did so.

"Chri-i-ist," he gasped, blinking against the light.

"Hi," Violet said, beaming down at him.

Deep creases appeared between his brows.

"Is it March already?" he asked, his voice rough from sleep.

"Yes," Violet said, light laughter in her tone.

"What happened to February?" Sherlock propped himself up onto elbows and looked about the flat. "Wasn't I just talking to someone?"

"I guess you've been busy," Violet said, leaning forward. She pressed a kiss to his down-turned lips, then pulled back to examine his features. He'd obviously had a lot on while she was in the States, if he hadn't noticed the passage of time.

She rose and made her way to the kitchen, calling back, "I'll put the kettle on while you wake up."

She didn't want to interrogate Sherlock further while he seemed groggy and disoriented. Had he been out all night? Sure smelled like it.

After flicking on the kettle, she turned her back on the counter, leaning against it as Sherlock passed her by, staggering a little. She just opened her mouth to ask him what he'd been working on when he waved a dismissive hand at her.

"I haven't progressed on the case," he muttered, "so don't ask me about it." He entered the bathroom, shutting the door behind him.

Violet heaved out a sigh. Of course he hadn't made progress. Jim Moriarty was still at large, his mere presence fraying her nerves.

The completed script for _Canning Town_ , based on Violet's favourite novel of the same name, had lain unopen on her hotel bedside table for weeks, until Jim reminded her she ought to be more grateful for the strings he'd pulled for her.

"Or should I say," he added, a hint of menace in his tone, "for the people I've had put down for you."

What the fuck had that meant? More people had died at her expense?

So, she'd read the script. Obviously a rush job. Had the writer even read the novel properly? She discussed it with Timothy Killaney when they met backstage on the Marcia Higgins show.

"It's just a series of events," she told him. "Where's the internal struggle?"

The next time Jim had turned up on set, he gave her version two of the script.

"I hope you like the internal struggle in this one," he said. "Unfortunately, the last script writer faced an external struggle so I had to get someone else in."

Shooting was delayed that afternoon, because Violet wouldn't leave her dressing room.

But Sherlock wouldn't know any of this. If he had, would he have progressed on the case?

She heard what sounded like Sherlock dry-wretching, so she crossed the kitchen for the corridor outside the bathroom.

"Are you all right?" she asked through the closed door.

After a moment or two, she could hear water splashing in the sink, a lot of rummaging around with cabinet doors opening and closing. Finally, Sherlock exited into the hallway from the door to his bedroom. He'd draped his new dressing gown around him—the one Violet had gifted him for Christmas.

"I'm fine," he said.

"God, Sherlock, you look awful." Violet hastened over to him and put a hand to his cheek. "And you've got a temperature."

"Yes. Bit of a flu," Sherlock said, side-stepping Violet for the kitchen.

"I've never known you to get sick. Are you taking anything for it?"

"Just need paracetamol," he said, sniffing. Shuffling a few beakers aside on the kitchen table, he found a packet of Panadol and held it up as if it were evidence.

Violet fetched him a glass of water and eyed him critically as he downed the tablets.

"You should probably lie down again," she said. "But… can we say a proper hello, first?"

Sherlock looked slightly alarmed as Violet came forward for a hug. Thankfully, he embraced her, while she held him fast around the waist.

The tension left her as Sherlock rested his chin on the top of her head.

"I've missed you," he rasped.

His confession was unexpected and tinged with so much emotion. A lump formed in her throat.

"I've missed you, too," she whispered. "I can't believe it's been two whole months."

Two months. It had been torture. Almost. New York City was an amazing place to live and work. So much to do, so many distractions. She was busy the entire time, but nights were the worst when she was left alone with her own thoughts.

Sherlock tightened his hold around her. How easy would it be to stay here? She'd taken a risk coming back to Baker Street, but who on earth was still watching 221B?

The front door slammed shut, and Sherlock straightened up. Multiple footsteps sounded in the stairwell.

"Oh God," he said, with a groan. "The Good Samaritans."

Releasing Violet from his embrace, he pressed a finger to his lips and said, "Be quiet. Pretend we're not here."

"Sherlock!" came an irate voice, accompanied with a couple of hefty raps on the door. "So help me, I'm going to smash through this door if you don't open it!"

"It's John!" Violet whispered. But why was he so angry?

She made to move away from Sherlock, but he clasped his hand around her wrist and hissed, "Don't answer it!"

"But it's John!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, John," came a female voice Violet recognised as Mary. "Use the bloody key."

Violet eased herself out of Sherlock's grip and made a bid for the living room. Before she could reach the front door, it opened.

"Violet," John said, his mouth gaping a little.

Relief spread through her. She beamed at John and met him in an embrace.

"W-when did you get back?" he asked.

"In London, yesterday," she replied. "But I've only just arrived here, in Baker Street."

John moved aside, allowing Mary to give Violet a hug. Sherlock cleared his throat.

"Oh, you're awake," John said to Sherlock.

"He's a bit poorly," Violet told them.

"I'll bloody say," John muttered.

Puzzled by his attitude towards Sherlock, Violet hastened to add, "He's got the flu."

"Is that what you told her?" John said, addressing Sherlock.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Flopping down into his armchair, he said, "Oh, John, relax. You'll do yourself an injury."

"What's going on?" Violet asked, looking between the men.

Jabbing a finger at Sherlock, John said, "Why don't you ask him. Ask him why he's got the 'flu'. Although, he probably won't tell you he's been off his tits for months."

"That's an exaggeration," Sherlock retorted. "Six weeks at the most."

"Jeez, Sherlock," John said in an undertone.

Violet looked from John to Sherlock and back again.

"What do you mean?" she asked John.

"And you're keeping the door locked," John said, still addressing Sherlock. "So you're hiding your drug use from Mrs Hudson, too."

"No, I'm not," Sherlock replied. "Somebody keeps breaking in and moving my things around. I'm trying to prevent a robbery."

"That would be Mary and I and Mrs Hudson looking for your drug supply. We've checked all the usual places. Couldn't find anything, but you're obviously still using."

Violet gaped, blood leaching from her face. Drug supply? Still using?

"You took a urine sample the other day, Doctor Watson," Sherlock retorted. "What did you find?"

"You know very well that whatever you've been taking can't be detected in the lab with the usual tests. That's what Molly said, anyway."

"Oh, you've brought her in on it."

"What's going on!" Violet demanded. Her stomach was in knots. How was this even possible? Sherlock taking drugs?

She knew he had a cocaine problem in his early twenties; he'd told her that. But he was… different.

"I'm sorry, Violet," John said, his voice considerably calmer. "For some reason, he's gone from pretending to have relapsed, to actually relapsing."

Mary stepped forward, folding her arms in front of her.

"And we've no idea what triggered it," she said.

Sherlock sat up and huffed an impatient breath.

"I don't need triggers," he said. "I simply use drugs to heighten my thinking process. This is deliberate."

"What?" Violet said, aghast.

Sherlock looked at her properly for the first time since the Watsons had arrived, his eyes raking over her from head to toe.

"Well," he said, waving a hand at her, "You can hardly talk. You've been drinking continually since you left for America. Look at you—your skin's dry, your face is a bit puffy. And there were those rumours on Twitter about you being late to set each day. Up drinking in the hotel bar the night before? So what triggered you?"

Violet gaped a little, feeling her eyes sting. Of course he bloody deduced her. But why did he have to be so mean about it?

What had triggered her?

 _Who_ had triggered her.

It had been just a glass of red in the evenings. A harmless glass. One or two. Or three. The days on set had been arduous. Her co-star was a fucking amateur. Jim had been right: the man was a has-been. Violet found herself yelling directions at him herself. Virginia Schalder as a director was far too soft.

 _Arthur Avenue_ was supposed to be a success. It was the only film Jim hadn't organised for her. They hadn't even signed a distribution deal yet. Nobody was going to get to see the damn movie anyway!

But red wine gave her an awful hangover, so she switched to vodka. And after her 'incident' with Jim, her shot of vodka wasn't just for the evenings, either.

"Nope," John said to Sherlock. "We're not doing this. Don't make it about Violet."

"No," Violet said. "Make it about me." This was getting out of hand. Sherlock—he'd sunk lower than she'd ever seen him. And for what? To heighten his thought processes? But he hadn't progressed on the case! Violet had to come clean. "It started with me," she continued. "And it'll probably finish with me."

Sherlock sharpened his gaze, looking more lucid than when she had arrived.

"What do you mean?" Mary asked.

Violet drew in a steadying breath.

"Jim's visited me a few times since I returned from Australia."

Sherlock pushed himself out of his armchair.

"Right," he said, grabbing a chair from the living room table and placing it between the two armchairs, facing the fireplace. "Sit," he said.

"Violet's not a client," John said.

"Yes, she is. She always has been. Don't forget, John: clients always start by lying or omitting information. What makes you think Violet's any different?" Narrowing his gaze at his girlfriend, he repeated the order to sit, gesturing towards the chair.

Violet quickly scanned the faces of those around her. With an imperceptible nod, she took the 'client' chair.

John sat in his old armchair with Mary perching herself on the armrest.

"Start from the beginning," Sherlock said, "and don't leave anything out."

Violet stared into the fireplace while she gathered her thoughts. The obvious place to start would be back in Australia and the first time she'd met Mr James Moriarty—after the first cast readthrough.

Sherlock had steepled his fingertips to his lips when Violet began. He stared at a spot in front of him, his gaze unwavering, as Violet told them all about Jim volunteering to approach Stacia Jecks for optioning her novel _Canning Town_ ; she filled in the missing details about Jim claiming responsibility for fast-tracking her career from her humble beginnings on _Regency Road_ to the blockbuster superhero sequel, _The Rise of the Five_. He'd most recently snared her a co-starring role in the thriller, _Improbity_. And there were more to come.

Sherlock's only response was a tut.

Violet tried to recount the conversations exactly as they had occurred. The devil was in the detail. Remembering dialogue was definitely one of her strengths as an actor. Jim's comments always came with an underlying meaning and perhaps Sherlock, Mary or John could interpret them another way.

John murmured "Jesus Christ" when Violet told them about Hersch Gleitzman and Jim's probable involvement in his murder, but she only skimmed the surface of her interactions with the independent movie mogul, saying Gleitzman had wanted to cast her in a movie and Jim wasn't pleased with his interference.

She told them about Jim visiting her in the studio in London, after they'd leaked their "break up" to the press. She was filming _Improbity_ at the time, and Jim indicated he was going to be a continual presence in her life.

Again, Sherlock tutted.

There were a few more meetings in New York, mostly regarding the _Canning Town_ script and its rewrites, she told them. Violet faltered when she said the first script writer had met with an untimely death because it got back to Jim that Violet hadn't liked the first version of the screenplay.

"Oh, Violet," Mary said.

What she omitted to tell them, though, was the last meeting in New York, which took place in her director's favourite pasta restaurant. James Moriarty was offering to find a distributor for _Arthur Avenue_ , and Justin and Virginia wanted to clinch the deal with a dinner. The last to arrive, Violet approached the table where Jim sat with the Splendor Pictures power couple. On the spur of the moment, she grabbed a steak knife from a neighbouring table. The rest of the patrons disappeared in a blur of movement and voices. Her whole body numbed except for the blood rushing in her ears. As she narrowed the gap between herself and their table, the knife hidden behind her handbag, a waiter suddenly brushed past her, pulled the knife discreetly out of her grasp, and said, "I'll take that, ma'am," in a voice that suggested Violet may have been easing out of a coat and was in need of a cloakroom.

At that same moment, Jim gave her a tiny shake of his head, a knowing look in his eyes.

She spent the rest of the evening either silently seething—angry with herself for not being able to stab the fucker—or feeling sick at the thought of what she had attempted.

Jim ended the evening with a parting word meant only for Violet's ears.

"Nobody ever gets to me."

Justin Behmes later informed Violet that Moriarty was unable to secure a distribution deal for _Arthur Avenue_.

That may have been around the time Violet included a day-time hit of vodka.

"So, all these roles were won for you by Moriarty," Mary asked, "with the exception of _Arthur Avenue_?"

Violet nodded.

"Wow," John said under his breath.

" _Regency Road_ ," Sherlock said, still looking into the void with his hands in a prayer position.

Violet waited for Sherlock to pose a question, holding her breath. Was he going to deduce what had happened in New York?

"What did he mean when he said it didn't work out?" he eventually asked, bringing his gaze to lock onto Violet's.

 _Regency Road_ , Jim had said in the production office in Australia. _I got you that role. Didn't turn out quite like I wanted it to, but still. It gave you a start._

"I don't know," she said slowly. "Christa was only supposed to be on the show for a short amount of time. Maybe Jim had pressured someone into extending my role and they refused. Probably harder to get his own way there. More people to threaten. It's like a committee… a team of writers deciding what happens when, and they're a whole year ahead with some of the subplots. I wasn't out of work for very long, anyway. He got me the role in _Catherine Hilderness_ soon after."

Poor Sir Henry Masters, Violet thought. The British theatre icon had been against casting Violet Hunter from the beginning. What had Jim threatened him with?

"You should've told me all this," Sherlock said, his voice flat and unaffected. He was looking away from her again.

The realisation she'd been keeping all this from everyone she was close to, and especially the man who may have able to do something about it, hit Violet in an avalanche of emotions. What initially began as a shuddering exhale, turned into a choked sob, until Violet wept openly into her hand.

"Oh, Violet," Mary said, rushing to her side. "It must've been so hard for you," she soothed. "And being so far away."

" _Sherlock,"_ John said in a fierce whisper.

"You did the right thing in telling us now."

" _Sherlock_!"

Violet lifted her head, wiping at her eyes when Sherlock rose out of his seat. Mary straightened up, but Sherlock bypassed them both, crossing the living room floor before about-facing when he reached the coffee table.

Violet pushed herself out of her seat and turned to face him.

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you," she said. Sherlock paused, mid-stride, deep furrows appearing between his brows as if she had rudely interrupted his train of thought. "It's… it's humiliating," she went on. "It wasn't talent that won me these roles. It was Jim blackmailing people. How do you think that makes me feel, having the industry knowing I didn't get the roles on merit alone? How could I admit this to anyone?" Her voice cracked a little, but she persevered. "I've done interviews, so many fucking interviews, answering the same fucking questions about how I've been catapulted into stardom. Aren't I lucky, they say. How does it feel? What's my secret? Which one was my breakout role?" Violet paused to heave out a sigh. She dropped her gaze to run a hand through her hair. "I'm so sick of the fucking lies. I'm sick and tired of this life." Making eye contact with Sherlock again, she added, "I'm not going to give up like Daisy did. I won't give in to him. I just haven't figured out exactly—"

"Daisy," Sherlock said at last. "Daisy Firmington."

"Jesus, Sherlock," John said. "Are you even listening?"

Some rapid thought process had Sherlock in its grips. Why'd he latch onto Daisy Firmington? Jim had mentioned her a couple of times.

"He asked me if anyone's said I look like Daisy Firmington," Violet said wearily. There had been an implied threat in his words at the time.

"Oh. Idiot!" Sherlock said, his eyes widening. Stepping closer to Violet, he suddenly grasped her by the shoulders, gave her a brief kiss on the lips and said, "Of course you'll be fine."

After releasing her, he then grabbed Mary and kissed her on the forehead.

"And you," he said. "You were almost right."

Pointing an accusatory finger at John, he added, "And you came up with nothing, as usual."

"Yeah, thanks," John said.

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock had swiftly vacated the living room, making a beeline for the bedroom.

"Sherlock!" John called after him.

"Where is Moriarty now?" Mary asked Violet.

Sherlock was yelling something about "not being idle" and "can't hear my thoughts over everyone else's drama."

"I don't know," Violet said, feeling slightly dizzy from both Sherlock's whirlwind reaction and the sharing of her horrible secret. "His official position's in L.A., but he just pops up anywhere."

Now wearing his suit jacket in place of his dressing gown, Sherlock returned to the living room.

"I have to think. I need a cigarette."

He patted his pockets reflexively.

"Ah, no you don't," John said. "Mary and I will leave, so you don't have to listen to our drama. And you're going to sit there and discuss things with Violet."

"No need, John; it's all here," Sherlock said, tapping his temple.

In no time, he was at the living room door, reaching behind it for his Belstaff.

"Sherlock—" Violet began.

"We all know you're not going out for cigarettes," John said. "I'm coming with you."

"Don't be such a drama queen," Sherlock said, heading for the landing.

"If you're just gonna walk and smoke," John said, grabbing his own coat from the back of a dining chair, "then you can share your thoughts out loud with me." As they disappeared into the stairwell, Violet heard Sherlock's loud scoffing, followed by John's irate tone. "It helps you think, as you keep saying!"

After they had left, Violet exhaled the breath she didn't realise she'd been holding. Did Sherlock really have something to go on? She was almost relieved she didn't have to deal with any fallout from her boyfriend right now.

"Are you okay?" Mary asked.

"What's all that noise?" a voice asked, floating up the stairs.

"I'd better head her off at the pass," Mary said. "You just…" And she waved in the direction of the kitchen. "… have a cup of tea."

When Mary disappeared through the living room door, Violet briefly closed her eyes and willed herself to relax. What a release it was—talking to people about something that was true, rather than existing on a plane of make-believe. But what had she expected to happen?

A murmured conversation filtered up from below which spurred Violet into moving.

She had just filled the kettle and switched it on when Mary returned.

"Just told her John's finally got through to Sherlock," Mary said. "But he's resting now. That'll stop her coming up and vacuuming for a few hours."

"Did you want a herbal tea as well?" Violet asked, reaching for the tea cups.

"That would be lovely."

Mary leant against the kitchen table as Violet retrieved the canister in which she used to store the herbal infusions she had switched to when she lived in Baker Street. She felt a pang of longing for her old routine.

"There might be a camomile and spearmint," she told Mary. "That's always lovely."

"Sounds wonderful." Mary paused for a moment, before venturing, "I did want to quiz you about all the movie-making business, but I.. I really want to make sure you're okay."

"I'm fine…" Violet gave Mary a half-smile. "I don't mind talking about my work. Just don't ask me how I've managed to win all these amazing roles."

Mary chuckled.

"Fair enough."

Violet started searching through the tea sachets for the one they wanted. She frowned at the unfamiliar choices.

"I've no idea what these are," she said, lifting up what looked like a herbal blend and reading the label. "What do you think this is?"

She handed the sachet to Mary and retrieved a different one so she could read its label, too.

"I think," Mary said, a grim smile on her face, "you've just found Sherlock's secret stash."

"What?" Violet said, examining the label with a more critical eye.

"These are designer drugs."

"Really?"

"Synthetic cannabinoids. And I don't think Sherlock's been taking these ones." Mary joined Violet at the kitchen counter. "There's too many left. He would've been after the stimulants and there aren't any of them here, if there were any. Hopefully John's managing to keep up with him right now."

Violet's stomach dropped.

Though they found a more traditional style of tea and settled into the armchairs by the fire to discuss some of the more charming aspects of the industry, Violet harboured a deep sense of dread, worrying about Sherlock and his drug relapse.

As they were both surreptitiously peering through the curtains onto the street, trying to figure out if Violet could successfully leave the flat without being spotted, a cab pulled up, depositing both Sherlock and John onto the kerb.

"Sherlock doesn't look too good," Mary observed.

Violet decided to stay for the rest of the evening to help Sherlock as he continued withdrawing from whatever substance he'd been abusing of late. John gave him something and told Violet it would help him sleep. He promised to return a few hours later to check in and perhaps give Violet a chance to leave, knowing Sherlock would be in good hands.

She soothed Sherlock in the bath, even though he told her to "fuck off" at one point.

She left him to fall asleep in his bed around midnight. Thinking she'd check in with him one more time before leaving, she peered through a crack in the door.

"Lie down with me," he said.

Relief flooded through her.

Violet settled on the bed, leaning against the headboard. Sherlock shuffled over to rest his head in her lap.

"I'm sorry," he murmured sleepily. "I've… disappointed… you."

Carding her fingers through his hair, Violet said, "Just concentrate on getting better. We'll talk things over… later."

When, though? she thought. She would be in the recording studio narrating the second book in the Jayle Anglesee series. And she had three scripts to read that Jim had delivered via courier to her. She knew which ones came from him directly, rather than her agent—they were tied in a red ribbon. His idea of a little joke.

She had to get this sorted with Sherlock before she headed off on her _Rise of the Five_ promo tour.

"What are we going to do, Sherlock," she whispered into the darkness.

Sherlock murmured something she didn't quite catch.

"Sorry?"she asked.

"Get… married."

Her skin tingled and her breath hitched.

Where had that come from?

"Are you serious?" she asked.

"Mm."

Violet released the breath she didn't realise she'd been holding.

"I'm not sure that's going to help in any way," she said, partly to herself. "If you mean in secret, I don't see how that can work. But if you mean later…"

She drifted off, projecting her thoughts to some place far off into the future.

If they could both sneak off abroad… or perhaps Sherlock could meet her somewhere in the Asia-Pacific region. And what? Tie the knot? What then? It didn't help their situation at all.

But… sneaking away more permanently…

"Remember that couple you told me about?" she said. "It was ages ago. We had just got together… you know… We had our first real fight. I thought you didn't want John to know about us. I think we broke up for about a day." She laughed lightly. "And then you showed me these two rings… from a dead couple. Well, you said they weren't dead. They made a suicide pact and you suspected they were living together somewhere else… new identities, new location."

Violet let the silence carry her words as the idea swam around her head.

Lowering her voice, she added, "Maybe we could do that. You'd know how to fake our deaths and make us disappear…" Violet almost choked saying the words out loud. "A suicide pact."

Her eyes filled with tears as she was overcome with emotion.

"Sherlock?"

His silence told her all she needed to know.

 _Asleep? So he didn't hear a bloody thing I said!_

 _#_

 _ **Author's Note: I gave up on NaNoWriMo half-way through the month, so this is all I've written except for a few scrawled notes. I could use the motivation to write faster! If you'd like the next chapter in a timely fashion, you know what to do!**_


	27. I've Been Slow, Far Too Slow

**Chapter 27 - I've Been Slow, Far Too Slow**

 _ **March 2014**_

"Did you even stop using after I left?" Violet yelled.

Sherlock alternated his gaze between John Watson and Violet, a look of confusion on his face. John was clearly seething as well.

Violet found Sherlock inactive on the sofa once more, looking no better than the day she'd learnt from the Watsons that he'd been abusing synthetic stimulants. After her confession—that Moriarty was behind her career—Sherlock had been seized by a deduction and run off as if he was on to something. Then what had happened after that? She'd nursed him through one night of withdrawal. But she had commitments in the days following—the London premiere of _The Rise of the Five_ and all the nonsense that went with it _._

Violet wanted to blame John. Mary. Mrs Hudson. Wasn't anyone looking out for him?

John told her he had a clinic to run, but a look of guilt flitted across his face.

"I thought he was working again," he added. "You know, back on the case. He doesn't use when he's working."

"I'm right here," Sherlock interrupted, rising from the sofa. He made his way towards the kitchen, wobbling a little.

There was a clicking in Violet's brain — like cogs turning, gears shifting. She tensed every muscle in her body as she tracked Sherlock across the floor. Without taking her eyes off him, she addressed his ex-flatmate.

"John, would you mind giving us a minute?"

"Uh… yeah… okay," John replied. He cleared his throat as if to counteract the awkwardness that now hung heavily in the room.

Violet waited until John had rounded the staircase. Sherlock was heaping sugar into a tea cup when she joined him at the kitchen counter.

"Am I the only one willing to do anything about him?" she said.

"Who, John?" Sherlock asked. "He's fairly harmless if you ignore—"

"I'm talking about Jim! _Moriarty_!"

Sherlock stopped what he was doing, the teaspoon poised on the side of the tea cup.

Violet felt a tightness building up in her chest. She had expected to arrive at 221 with Sherlock enthusiastically describing all the details that led him to an entirely connected case. To find him like this, again…

She drew in a steadying breath.

"He's ruined my life," she said evenly. " _Our_ lives. My career." She paused to swallow the lump in her throat. "Maybe he's ruined yours, too. I don't know." She shrugged. "I've got no idea what you've been doing all this time. Have you even been working? I thought we were in this together. It's _our case!_ Does that even register in your brain anymore? Do you care?" Violet waited for Sherlock to respond. To say _something!_

Something to let her know there was an ounce of intelligence left in him.

At Sherlock's continued silence, during which he carefully spooned another heap of sugar into his cup, Violet felt her cheeks flush.

"I'm going to do something about it," she said, seething. "About _him_. Whether or not you help me."

"And what are you going to do?" he asked lethargically, stirring the cup full of… what? Sugar?

Something inside Violet snapped.

She reached across Sherlock, grabbed a knife from the knife block and whirled around. She flung it straight at the bison skull above the living room table—a throw she had learned on the set of _Rise of the Five,_ a throw that would hit its mark between the eyes with a loud thwack, the hilt of the knife reverberating dramatically. Instead, the knife tilted sideways, clipped the edge of the Bison's headphones, then bounced off the wall, falling to the table with a dull clatter.

Violet drew in a deep breath and set her jaw firmly.

Beside her, Sherlock snorted out a laugh.

She turned from him and stalked from the room. Making it to the landing, she heard Sherlock call behind her.

"Wait!" But she kept going. "Wait!" She heard his hurried footfalls tromping down the staircase as she rounded the bend. "Violet!" Sherlock grabbed her arm. When she turned to him, he added, "Sorry… can't keep up with my brain. It's too fast."

"I'm not sure it's working at all."

Violet made to continue down the stairs when Sherlock bid her, "No, wait! You were going to do something… Something that's not right."

Pulling her arm from his grasp, Violet replied, "You'll figure it out sooner or later." She continued her descent.

"Violet!" he called again.

As Violet reached the foot of the stairs, John emerged from Mrs Hudson's kitchen.

"You can't go," Sherlock said. He paused on the last step, leaning heavily against the wall as he bowed his head to rub his temple, pain etched on his face.

Violet redirected her gaze to John.

"Look after him," she said, her voice cracking. "I can't do this any more."

"Do what?" Sherlock rasped. He appeared to be making an effort to keep his eyes locked on her this time. "Because you…" He waved a limp hand at her as he took the last step. "You… can't talk. You want me to stop using? What have you been doing? Have you looked in the mirror lately? You're one Bordeaux away from cirrhosis of the liver. I'll stop when you stop."

Violet clenched her fists by her side and took a step closer.

"I'm not the one lying on my sofa!" she snapped. "I'm still working! I still have relationships with people. I'm… I'm still contributing something meaningful to society!"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Something meaningful?" he repeated, slowly, deliberately. "How is what you do contributing anything meaningful?"

Violet lifted her chin.

Speaking with deadly calm, she said, "I'm going to do something about _him._ Something you've failed to do, Sherlock. You haven't solved our case. Jim Moriarty's won."

There was a flicker of hurt in his eyes before he blinked and it was gone. But Violet didn't hang around long enough to wait for his next reaction. She strode purposefully for the door and escaped into Baker Street.

#

Sherlock blinked against the eye drops, pried his left lids apart, tilted his head and squeezed the bottle.

"Did her insult jolt you out of your… your…" stammered John.

Sherlock would've rolled his eyes, but they were more or less occupied at the moment. He tutted instead.

She hadn't insulted him.

Well, not really.

She had made a deduction, that's all. He should applaud her for it.

But it wasn't just Violet's "deduction" that had eased him out of his drugged-out stupor. It was the gradual realisation that he wasn't even competent. He wasn't "using" properly. Where had those heady days gone living in Montague Street? Except for the end. That was a bit not good. But before that.

Sherlock Holmes used cocaine intravenously to fill in the lull between cases. Or during cases, if he needed that extra boost. There was a trick to hiding his drug use, or "addiction" as ignorant people liked to call it—namely his brother and Graham Lestrade. Stimulants filled in the gaps of boredom like a bricklayer slathering mortar between the cracks. But these days, the walls were crumbling, and the gaps were considerably wider. And 3-FPM wasn't cocaine.

"Here," he said, returning the bottle of eye drops to John. Striding from the window towards the kitchen, he asked, "What else have you got for me?"

He heard John blow out a breath before the man replied, "Nothing that stimulates or anaesthetises you."

"Pity."

He heard John cluck his tongue. Where was the doctor's sense of humour?

Sherlock lifted the kettle, gently swished it around to test the water level, then set it back in its holder. He flicked it on and tried to sift through the debris of discarded thoughts.

"She was pretty bloody mad," John continued, and this time Sherlock did roll his eyes.

"She'll calm down," he said. Of course she would, once she realised her own substance abuse wasn't so different from Sherlock's. "I expect she'll turn up sometime during the night."

"Do you even know what day it is?" John asked, his voice rising in incredulity. "Violet left on her promo tour last weekend. They're in Singapore now, apparently."

Sherlock blinked twice to pause all other thoughts and let John's statement sit there for a moment. Had it been days since he last used? It felt simultaneously like yesterday and a hundred years ago. No matter.

But Violet.

He thought she'd given up on all that nonsense now it was out there that her career path was dictated by the whims of the Consultant Criminal. Oh, but wait. It was only Sherlock and his entourage who recently found out that information. The rest of the world was still completely ignorant. But Violet had been living with the knowledge for months. Why would she continue with the charade?

But there was something else… something she hadn't told him in so many words. In the state he'd been in the other day, he really did need her to spell out everything. Was she talking about…?

He shook his head and stared at the blank spot on the kitchen counter where his tea cup ought to have sat. His movements feeling stiff and foreign, he reached up and retrieved a cup from the overhead cabinet.

She was, wasn't she? Talking about doing away with Jim Moriarty. That's what she was inferring. All her drunken ramblings during Christmas had now entered the forefront of her mind stone cold sober. _How_ could he have let her leave with that idea in her head?

Sherlock could feel John Watson approaching, concern wafting from him like the stench on a month old corpse.

"How's the Lauren Myrtle-Moriarty thing going to help us?"

Ah, his deduction from… before. Useless.

"It doesn't," Sherlock replied.

But John's words prompted him into reaching up for a mug. He grabbed another automatically. "Tea?" he asked his friend.

"Uh, yeah," John responded before about-turning and retreating into the living room. "But doesn't it help figure out stuff—knowing his background?"

"Sometimes," Sherlock muttered, busying himself with the tea things. But he had to clarify things with John. Perhaps Violet had been drunk when she'd visited. He _had_ noticed something, obviously. Made a deduction, even.

"Was Violet—" he began.

"That's your phone," John interrupted, indicating the table beside Sherlock's armchair upon which his phone sat.

Before Sherlock had crossed into the living room, John reached over from his chair and grabbed the handset.

"Sherlock's phone," he answered. "John speaking."

While Sherlock waited impatiently ( _must_ be a client; it was a default ringtone), John frowned and said, "Er… yeah, he's just here." Handing over the phone, he added in a low voice, "Sounds a bit desperate."

Sherlock held back a weary exhale. The last thing he needed right now was a client who proclaimed their spouse was cheating on them. They were invariably right.

"Yes?" he said.

"Mr Holmes."

He waited a beat, ensuring the voice he was hearing actually matched the one stored in his Mind Palace. She had been texting him relentlessly while he'd been "offline". Texts such as, ' _Where are you?_ ' ' _Are you on vacation?_ ' ' _I miss your sultry face!_ ' ' _Nice corpse washed ashore yesterday. Where were you?_ '

Sherlock had finally texted back (and he rarely texted back), ' _I was working —SH_ '

In response, he received another nude photo from the Woman for his troubles.

"Ms Adler," he said into the phone.

John's eyebrows shot up.

"They've found me," Irene Adler said, desperation in her tone. "You have to come. You're my protection. I'll text you the address."

"Why should I believe you this time?" Sherlock asked. Irene Adler had been making him pursue her all over London the last time he was in contact with her. Why should he do her bidding on this occasion?

But the ambient noise of thudding club music ceased, and Sherlock knew the Woman had ended the call.

"What's going on?" John said.

"We haven't a moment to lose," Sherlock said, snapping into action. Irene Adler had phoned him, not texted! _That_ was why he should believe her this time.

#

"Dammit!" Sherlock yelled.

Hands clenched by his side, he spun from the chain link fence and the line of police officers preventing more punters from entering the vacant parking lot and therefore the illegal rave party.

"Well, they're not pulling anyone out," John said, nodding towards the previously-abandoned office block. It heaved with strobing lights, the silhouettes of gyrating bodies and the heavy base of a technotronic beat.

"They'll arrest the organisers as they leave," Sherlock said, making tracks for the road.

He pulled out his phone, dialled Irene Adler's number, then pressed the phone to his ear. After three rings, it went to a standard voicemail message. He swore under his breath and was just about to dial her number again when a text message appeared.

 _You're leaving already? And we haven't had a dance yet. x_

Sherlock tutted and rapidly typed,

 _I take it you're no longer in danger? —SH_

"What's she saying?" John asked.

He read Irene's next reply, then shoved the phone into his coat pocket.

"It was another ruse."

"You're joking!"

"Wish I was."

He turned on his heel and strode away, only vaguely aware of John's hurried footfalls struggling to keep up.

Back in Baker Street, Sherlock sat in his armchair for the rest of the night, brooding. Understandably, John left for home.

What joy did Irene Adler get out of tormenting him? Did she want protection or not? And how was he going to pry her phone away from her?

And more importantly, what was Violet going to do? And how could he prevent her from doing something stupid?

The light of dawn, a cup of tea and witless babble from his landlady brought no answers, so he hightailed it across the city and imposed himself on his brother.

"Must be important for you to pay me a visit," Mycroft said, loosely gesturing towards the chair opposite. "What have I done this time?"

Ignoring the invitation to take a seat, Sherlock gathered his thoughts. The last time he'd made an unannounced visit to his brother, he had demanded to hear the audio recording of a surveillance video of Violet and Jake Venucci. Not a good time in his life, admittedly. Although his current situation was hardly a walk through the morgue either.

"I think Violet's going to do something stupid the next time Moriarty turns up," he gushed. "Can you discreetly monitor his movements? I want to know precisely the moment he leaves the U.S. heading for the same country Violet's visiting."

Propping elbows on the armrests of his chair, Mycroft Holmes threaded his fingers together. He drew his mouth into a thin line.

"And then what will you do?" he asked with a tilt of his head. "Fly to Kuala Lumpur? Auckland? At the drop of a hat? I'm not sure you'll arrive in time to save the day. What about bodyguards? Surely the… what do they call them… film promoters… they must have some semblance of a security detail? All those _fans._ " Mycroft grimaced in distaste.

"I'm worried about what Violet's going to do to Moriarty, not the other way around."

"And what do you think Ms Hunter is going to do to James Moriarty?"

Sherlock thought for all of two seconds before replying, "Murder him."

His brother quirked a humorless smile.

"Isn't she full of surprises."

"So…?" Sherlock prompted.

Sighing heavily, Mycroft Holmes regarded a spot on his desktop for a moment. Sherlock knew what that silence meant.

"All right, Sherlock." The lizard smile was back. "I can at least monitor his location if you like." Reaching for the phone, he added, "And then we'll see what can be done about Ms Hunter."

#

"Sherlock! _Sherlock!_ "

But the Consulting Detective couldn't stop to answer his friend. Sprinting the length of the alleyway, every muscle protesting, Sherlock finally reached the back door to the warehouse. It was padlocked. And even more curious, the warehouse was deathly quiet. Where was the music? The rave party?

Puffing heavily, John Watson came up beside him.

"Come on, _think!_ " Sherlock bid himself, bringing his fingertips to his temples and shutting his eyes tight.

"Wrong location?" John said.

"No," Sherlock replied, his mind navigating the route they'd just taken. "This _must_ be right."

"Where've you sent Mycroft's people?"

"Other side," Sherlock swiftly answered, as if words were at a premium.

A single gunshot rang through the air.

He snapped his eyes open.

"No! No, no, no, no, no…"

Sherlock took off at a sprint in the opposite direction, the crisp night air burning his throat and lungs. He could hear John's footfalls far behind him. Ducking down another alleyway, he suddenly doubted himself. His mind wasn't as sharp as it used to be. Had he retrieved the wrong portion of the map in his Mind Palace?

Sherlock finally pulled up stops in front of a chain link fence. By the time he had made it to the top rail, John joined him, his chest heaving.

"I can't wait for you," Sherlock said, dropping to the other side. "Hand me your gun."

John looked like he was trying to swallow his protest, but he reached into the back of his trousers and pulled out his army-issued revolver. Handing it over the top of the fence, he said, "Just… don't…"

Sherlock nodded and reached for the gun. He didn't really care what he was agreeing not to do. He took off once more.

His chest ached with each stride, every breath short and sharp. Leg muscles heavy. He was desperately out of shape, he knew that.

Irene Adler's last phone call to him was different again. She barely said his name before there was the sound of a scuffle, a muffled cry, then silence. Seconds later, a message arrived containing a single photo of the exterior of a warehouse. Sherlock recognised the brickwork and the silhouetted skyline behind it. He was sure of that.

As he approached the next lot of warehouses, he became aware of a glow of headlights. Rounding the building he entered the scene that was all too familiar.

The scene of a murder.

#

 **Author's Note:**

 **I'm so sorry this update has been a** _ **very**_ **long time in coming! I've suddenly found myself with a bit of extra time on my hands! How are you coping? I hope you are all keeping well and safe during this time.**

 **~elbafo**

 **x**


	28. Bet You Never Saw This Coming

**Chapter 28 - Bet You Never Saw This Coming**

 _ **March 2014**_

"How did he recognise her from… not her face?" he heard Molly say to Mycroft as the mortuary door swung shut. It muffled any possible reply his brother may have made.

Walking along the low-ceilinged basement corridor, Sherlock tried to dismiss the pang of regret. The ache of failure.

"Apparently you have the code," Mycroft called to him.

Sherlock stopped at the end of the corridor, his thoughts stalling. Mycroft made his way towards him, his hand already reaching into a breast pocket.

"What code?" Sherlock asked.

Mycroft handed Sherlock a cigarette.

"The code that unlocks her phone," he replied.

"No…" Sherlock said, lighting the cigarette.

"She was overheard telling her assassin to 'ask Sherlock Holmes'. They'd been demanding she unlock her phone and wanted the code. She seemed to enjoy taunting them."

"Then she was stalling," Sherlock replied, taking a drag.

Mycroft narrowed his eyes at Sherlock.

"Are you sure?"

"I think I'd know." Making for the lift, he added, "But what does it matter? Without the phone, what can we—"

"I have the phone," Mycroft said calmly, coming up beside Sherlock as he pressed the button for the lift.

"What?"

Mycroft patted his coat pocket.

"Ms Adler handed a copy of her phone to the contract killers," Mycroft explained. "An exact replica in all ways except the one that mattered. The data. Clearly they hadn't thought to search her before they abandoned her body."

"Then how do you know this isn't the copy?"

"Why would she hand over her insurance policy?"

"Without knowing what went down, you have no idea what you possess," Sherlock said irately.

"Then tell me the code and we'll both find out," Mycroft said.

"I don't know the code."

Mycroft reached into his pocket and drew out a mobile phone.

"The information this device can reveal," Mycroft began, idly turning the phone over, "can end all this nonsense. Why are you acting so obtuse?"

"I don't know the code," Sherlock repeated. Who was acting obtuse?

As the lift doors opened before them, Mycroft said, "Think back, Brother Mine." Sherlock set his jaw firmly, swiftly entering the lift and turning to face the doors. "In whatever Mind Palace vault you store your clandestine liaisons," his brother continued, joining him inside. "The private conversations you had in your flat. Among those… souvenir photos Ms Adler sent you, surely there's—"

"Nothing!" Sherlock said, punching the ground floor button with his fist. He bristled at his brother's inference that his and Irene Adler's interactions were more than a few stilted conversations in front of his fireplace. Clandestine liaisons? Souvenir photos?

They navigated the corridors of Barts and exited onto Giltspur Street. As the town car drew up beside them, Mycroft once more bid Sherlock to try a little harder to recall the conversations he'd had with Adler.

"I know you try to delete those memories that cause you pain," Mycroft went on, to Sherlock's horror, "so if you've been unfaithful to Ms Hun—"

"You've got to be joking."

"No. I'm serious. She sent you those photos on purpose," Mycroft said, climbing into the vehicle. With one hand on the door handle, he added, "If you get any ideas, you know where to find me."

 _She sent you those photos on purpose._

 _On purpose._

Photos of Adler.

From every angle.

Why?

"Stop!" Sherlock said as Mycroft made to close the door on him. He blinked a couple of times as an idea came to him. "How many characters does the code need?"

"Six," Mycroft replied. "Why?"

One corner of Sherlock's mouth twitched into a smile.

"I have an idea," he replied.

#

Violet drained the rest of her glass.

"Top up," she commanded her P.A. Then she added. "That was my second."

Mandi raised an eyebrow.

"That was your third, actually."

"It was my second," Violet said, moving her glass closer to Mandi. "I think I'd know."

With a heavy sigh and a stifled eye roll, Mandi grabbed both their glasses and headed over to the mini bar.

Violet sank back into the sofa, grabbed the remote control next to her and turned up the volume on the news channel.

"… _at high-security Belmarsh Prison in South London_ ," the news anchor read, " _and will be sentenced next month. In other news,_ _a Hollywood studio executive was arrested late last night by the FBI for human trafficking out of the United States_."

Violet sat up straight, her eyes widening. As she watched it all unfold, the world slowed to a crawl.

"Oh, my God!" she breathed.

"What?" Mandi asked.

"… _outside the Metropolitan Detention Centre in downtown L.A. Maryanne what can you tell us about the case the FBI has been investigating?_ "

Violet leant forward, straining to hear.

" _Thank you, Rhonda. These last few months the Federal Bureau of Investigation has been working closely with INTERPOL..._ "

"Who's that?" Mandi asked, drifting over from the mini bar, wine glasses in hand. "Oh! Isn't that…?"

".. _.now being held in federal custody over the weekend awaiting a pre-trial hearing on Monday._ "

"They haven't said his name," Violet murmured.

"It's him, though isn't it? That guy… the executive from Etienne-Lumiere… the one producing _Canning Town_."

"... _The man, identified only as an Irish national at this stage, will appear in federal court along with his accomplices..._ "

"Accomplices," Violet echoed, distracted.

"… _and now we head over to the seaside town of Whitby, the infamous setting of—"_

Violet's mind was abuzz with a multitude of thoughts.

"It's that woman again," Mandi said beside her, phone in hand.

"What?"

Mandi held out Violet's phone, which was ringing, to show her the caller ID.

 _Mary Watson._

The hollow inside Violet's chest expanded just that bit more. Mary had phoned last night as well, but Violet hadn't wanted to speak to her. They'd just returned from dinner where Violet had consumed a tad too much red wine and then a couple of vodkas with lemonade. There may have been a few shots thrown in for good measure. Damn that Heath Camblin and his drinking games!

After Sherlock's deduction about Violet's drinking, once in front of Mary, Violet hadn't wanted to talk to Doctor Watson's wife while she was feeling a bit tipsy.

Leaving last night's call to go through to her messaging service did nothing to alleviate the worry, though. What if Mary was ringing to deliver bad news about Sherlock? Despite Violet walking out on him, it wasn't the lack of caring that had prompted her. The missed call niggled at her all day.

Maybe Mary was ringing about Jim's arrest? Did Sherlock have something to do with it? But Sherlock was probably still using designer drugs and lolling about on his sofa. Maybe Mary was ringing about Sherlock after all. _He could've OD'd!_

"Am I answering it?" Mandi asked.

Heart hammering, Violet drew in a steadying breath and reached for the phone.

"Mary," she said, rising from the sofa and striving to make her voice sound light and unaffected. "How are you?"

"Violet! I'm not ringing at an inconvenient hour am I?"

"No… no… Just winding down… here… long days… living out of a hotel room…"

She tried to add a chuckle at the end, but it came out more like a choke.

"Have you heard the news?" Mary went on.

"About…?" Violet asked cautiously.

"Moriarty."

Violet's chest heaved, her shoulders relaxing.

 _Not_ Sherlock! He was okay!

"It… it was just on," she said, indicating the telly, even though Mary couldn't see her gesture.

"It's over," Mary gushed. "Sherlock wanted me to ring you. He didn't think it was appropriate to make the call himself. I would've told you yesterday, before the press got wind of it, but..."

But Violet hadn't taken her call.

Heading towards her bedroom, Violet asked in a low voice, "Did he have anything to do with it?" Closing her door behind her, she whispered, " _Sherlock?_ "

"Yes!" Mary replied. She told Violet about gaining access to Irene Adler's phone, to which Violet's cheeks reddened. That woman! But she was only half listening as Mary went on about the Holmes brothers finding the best incriminating evidence they could send to Mycroft's international contacts, to remove themselves and the British Government from the equation. "So…" Mary said, finally slowing down. "He wants to see you."

"H-how is he?"

"Good," Mary replied. Then after a moment's silence, she added, "Clean."

Violet sank onto the bed, her eyes stinging.

"Well, he thought maybe a weekend away somewhere, you know… private," Mary went on. "Just the two of you, away from the press. And after that, something public, just to let the world know you might be dating again. Can't have you moving into Baker Street the minute you get back. But Mycroft thought Sherlock should work on a couple of cases abroad first. Have a few wins under his belt, get the public's sympathy, after all the stuff the press wrote about him when you broke up. Make it believable that you'd take him back. He's in Amsterdam at the moment."

"I'm still abroad," Violet said, her mind racing. Go on a date with Sherlock Holmes? In public? That sort of freedom seemed like a lifetime ago.

"Well, so's he," Mary replied. "We're thinking the weekend after next. You'll be back then, won't you?"

"Yes," Violet replied. "I'll be back in London…"

She'd have to make sure she blocked out that weekend, so Mandi didn't have her attending the opening of a hair dressing salon, or some rubbish.

"Great!" Mary said. "I'll contact you again when you return."

Violet began breathing again once Mary had ended the call.

A date. With Sherlock Holmes.

Violet ran her fingers through her hair, then patted her cheeks in a pathetic effort to sober up. She had two weeks to stop this nightly ritual. Could she do it?

#

 _ **April 2014**_

Sherlock fingered the green velvet box in his coat pocket and gazed once more along the winding dusty driveway. He checked his watch again.

 _She'll be there_ , Mary's voice echoed to him. He was relying on his best friend's wife to pull all this together. Nobody except Mary knew the intricate details of their getaway to an exclusive cottage in Tunbridge Wells. Not even John. But what if Mary hadn't convinced Violet in the end?

"She'll love it," Mary said, her smile stretched wide as she handed over the engagement ring she'd purchased on Sherlock's behalf. Her eyes had glistened as she was overcome with emotion. "Sherlock," she said, stepping into an embrace he didn't realise he was giving.

Yes, he was doing it. Sealing Violet's fate with his.

But they were late.

The high-pitched whine of a power tool drilled into his thoughts.

"What's he doing now?" Sherlock muttered under his breath. The owners, Cecil and Simone, were preparing for a wedding party the following week, and they only had the rest of the weekend to prepare. In return for their hosts remaining discreet about their famous celebrity guests this weekend, Sherlock and Violet would have to endure the various maintenance and preparation work that was carried out around them. Doe Park Farmhouse wasn't originally taking bookings this weekend, but had made an exception.

Sherlock re-entered the farmhouse to find Cecil heating the muzzle of his shotgun with what looked like a hair dryer.

"Ruddy choke's stuck," Cecil yelled to Sherlock over the noise. "Groomsmen want to shoot rabbits Tuesday morning."

Sherlock gave the man a vague nod, then returned to stand sentry by the front entrance once more. Fortunately, they weren't going to be staying in the main house. Since the driveway stopped at the farmhouse, guests had to walk the rest of the way to the secluded cottage that overlooked the woodlands at the rear. Sherlock didn't want the owners to greet Violet. Quiet solitude, that's what he had specifically booked.

He was checking his watch again when Mary's grey Audi appeared winding its way towards the house. Striving to maintain a casual air, Sherlock stepped from the portico to the pebbled drive.

Mary pulled into the guest car park, giving Sherlock a brief wave. He could only just make out the figure in the passenger seat. Could be Violet. Could be a complete stranger.

Could be both.

He held his breath when Mary alighted. On the far side of the car, the passenger door opened. Mary had released the catch on the boot, and the lid automatically lifted as Sherlock approached.

"Sherlock," Mary said, meeting him in an embrace. "I won't linger," she added, accompanying her comment with a reassuring squeeze of his arm. "It'll be fine," she mouthed. Behind her, Violet had rounded the front of the car.

Sherlock waited patiently while Mary gave Violet a farewell hug.

Mary returned to the driver's seat, giving Sherlock clear access to Violet. If only his legs would move. But Violet still wore her sunglasses, so he couldn't read her present mood. For her part, she had turned her attention to the farmhouse.

"How many other guests?" she asked, without meeting Sherlock's gaze.

He quickly looked at Mary, who shrugged and gave him a rueful smile.

"Only us," he said, his voice rasping a little.

With a wave of her hand, Violet replied, "I've just got the one suitcase," and she immediately began walking towards the farmhouse without a backwards glance.

Sherlock locked eyes with Mary once more, but her only reaction was to raise an eyebrow and gesture with a tilt of her head towards the boot.

His cheeks beginning to burn, Sherlock swiftly retrieved Violet's small suitcase and slammed down the lid of the boot. With a wave of his hand, he farewelled Mary, who gave him a grim smile.

"Ah, Violet…" he called out, just as Violet reached the portico. "We're staying in the cottage." He gestured towards the right-hand side of the house and gave her what he hoped was an encouraging smile.

"Lovely," she replied, her voice devoid of emotion. As she followed a red brick path along the front of the house, Sherlock fell into step just behind her.

He should ask, "How are you?" or make some other trite comment. But he didn't do small talk. Violet knew him well enough by now not to be surprised by him launching into a conversation about something very specific. He longed to ask, "Have you stopped drinking now?" or "What do you think about Moriarty's incarceration?" And then he'd get to regale her with the brilliance of his deductions: how he'd figured out the code for Irene Adler's phone. Her measurements! All those nude photos she'd been texting him had a purpose after all!

Of course, he couldn't tell Violet about that.

So Sherlock said nothing.

They rounded the house and continued following the path that crossed a manicured lawn, then dove between a gap in a tall hedge.

"This is lovely," Violet said, stopping to take in the terrace with its outdoor setting and a path that led towards the woodland.

"Yes," Sherlock said. He cleared his throat. "We're too early for the bluebells… but…"

Oh, for fuck's sake. "And the… um… " He gestured with his free hand to the wisteria that threaded its way along the pergola above them. Violet followed his gaze. "We'd have to come back in May… Cecil said. But they're all booked out… so…"

So stop talking about absolute rubbish!

He gave her a sheepish smile—her reaction hard to read behind sunglasses—then he strode to the cottage door. Pushing inwards, he stepped inside, holding the door open for Violet. The cottage enveloped them in its warmth thanks to Cecil lighting the fire earlier. Sherlock had sat in front of it, watching the flames as he'd waited for the minutes to tick by until Violet could join him.

Violet cautiously looked around, her eyes alighting on the king bed that dominated one end of the cottage.

Sherlock closed the door and heaved a sigh. How stupid did he feel now. A king bed. For sleeping together and having sex on! How far were they from that sort of intimacy! But Violet was already approaching the bed. She dropped her handbag onto it, then made a beeline for the door that led to the bathroom opposite.

"Won't be a moment," she said, closing the door behind her.

Sherlock heaved out a breath and deposited Violet's suitcase at the foot of the bed. He raked his hand through his hair, his heart hammering.

Stupid idea.

Whose idea was this?

Looking around the cottage and seeing nothing that could relieve him of this pain, he stepped outside again. The perfect moment for a cigarette. But he stared, hands folded behind his back, along the path overgrown with bluebells. Yes, it would look spectacular in May, he thought, for those who like that sort of thing. And there was something about deer, too. Meant to be a drawcard. For who, though? Surely not the groomsmen who were going to shoot rabbits.

"Still smoking then?" Violet asked behind him.

He spun around. She was casually leaning against the doorway and indicated with a nod the outdoor table upon which an ashtray sat holding the butts of the two cigarettes Sherlock had smoked before Violet's arrival. Nice deduction.

But more alarming was Violet's red-rimmed eyes. She'd removed her sunglasses. And the tip of her nose was a little pink. Sherlock knew those tell-tale signs.

"Are you all right?" he asked, moving towards her.

She appeared to dissolve right before his eyes as she stepped back into the cottage. Sherlock followed her in, because this…. this _right now_ was an emotion at last!

Her back turned to him, Violet sobbed into her hands.

"Violet."

She suddenly turned, buried her face in his chest and held him fast around his waist. Automatically, tenderly, Sherlock banded his arms around her.

"It's all right," he said, smoothing a hand over Violet's back. "It's over."

She continued hiccuping into his chest, so he let her have this moment. Resting his chin on top of Violet's head, he felt his own tension leave him in waves.

Why could he never read her? She hadn't felt indifferent towards him! She'd been desperately trying to keep her emotions in check until they were truly alone.

"… can't… do… this…" she said, turning her head a little.

"Let's sit down," Sherlock said, gently directing Violet towards one of the armchairs by the fireplace.

Violet sniffed back tears as Sherlock took to a footstool in front of her chair.

"We're going to be okay now," he said, cupping a hand to her face and smoothing a thumb across her cheek.

Violet regarded him with tear-stained eyes.

"It doesn't feel… real," she rasped. "When we go back to London… we'll have to pretend again. I-I can't do that anymore."

"No," Sherlock said, bringing his face closer to Violet's. "That's not how it's going to be. When we get back to London, the minute we get back, I'm going to ring you for a cup of coffee. How does that sound? We could go to that place where people celebrity watch, that one near Kensington Gardens… And I'll even tolerate fans asking for your autograph. I'll have to tut just the once—have to stay in character, of course, but—"

He felt warmed when Violet offered him a smile.

"And then we'll have dinner," he went on. "And if we're having a good time, you can invite me to stay at your place. I can even be photographed the next day leaving and looking a little bit dishevelled. I know what the walk of shame is now!"

Violet emitted a chuckle and Sherlock knew he had her. He gave her a lopsided grin in response.

Right here, right now, where emotions were heightened and they sat in such close proximity: _now_ was the time to reach into his pocket and pull out the—

Two sharp raps sounded on the cottage door. Sherlock tutted and bowed his head, briefly closing his eyes at the lost opportunity.

"I'll just be a minute," he said, rising, but not before pressing a kiss to Violet's forehead.

He felt Violet rise and vacate the seat behind him just as he opened the door.

"Sorry, Mr Holmes," said Simone, Cecil's wife. Her arms were laden with towels, a couple of rolls of toilet paper, and a basket containing tea and coffee sachets along with three small tubs of long-life milk. "Before your guest arrives," she said.

"Oh," Sherlock said, reaching for the bundle. "She's already here, but thank you."

"Oh, no!" said Simone, her eyes widening in alarm. "I wanted to fix a curtain to the bathroom window." Shaking her head, she added, "The frosted glass isn't very discreet." Lowering her voice to a whisper, she said, "We've had complaints."

"Well, we—" Sherlock began, starting to feel irritated.

"It'll only take a minute. Just need to wedge in the curtain rod… it has one of those spring-loaded attachments, and I…"

"Yes, that's fine," Sherlock replied. "Just give us two minutes, then we'll head out for a walk."

"Oh! That would be wonderful! Thank you!"

Sherlock stepped back to allow the door to fall shut, when Simone interrupted him once again.

"Then I'll be heading off to the shops, so let me know if there's anything else you need. Some chocolate perhaps?"

Sherlock tried on an amiable smile for size.

"We have everything we need, thank you."

His expression immediately righted itself the second the door clicked shut. Offloading the bundle onto the tiny dining table, Sherlock approached the bathroom. Just as he was about to knock, the door flew inwards.

"I heard," Violet said, her eyes glistening with good humour. "We're going for a walk."

"Sorry," Sherlock said as Violet brushed past him.

"No, some fresh air will be lovely. I'll just grab my coat."

Violet's phone began to ring from the vicinity of her handbag. She glanced at it and shook her head.

"I should turn it off," she said.

"Yes," Sherlock said, reaching into his own pocket and drawing out his phone. Curiously, it too began to ring— _Mycroft_ —so Sherlock swiftly turned it off as well. After lightly tossing it onto the bed, he offered Violet his elbow.

"Shall we?"

Sherlock had checked his pocket at least half a dozen times as they made their way through the bluebell-lined path, hand in hand, eventually losing site of the cottage. A proposal in the middle of the woods was still romantic! He could get down on one knee, and the sunlight would be filtering through the trees, highlighting Violet's hair as tears streamed down her face. Perfect!

"Cecil said if we're out walking in the early hours, we might spot a deer," he offered.

"Early hours?" Violet repeated with a chuckle. "You and I?"

They stopped for a moment, facing each other.

"Well, if we don't go to sleep at all…" he said.

"That's more likely."

Sherlock drew in a steadying breath and reached for Violet's other hand, anchoring himself.

"This is a new beginning for us," he said, not quite sure of any other way to start. When Violet's eyes immediately began to moisten, he thought she might already be making a deduction. "And… and…" he added, scrambling.

A shot rang out, snapping the air around them. Furrowing his brow, Sherlock looked back along the path, towards the cottage.

"Was that…?" Violet asked.

Sherlock's mind struggled to change gear.

"A gunshot," he finished. "Cecil's cleaning the shotguns," he added, more for his own benefit than Violet's. "But that…"

 _That doesn't sound like a Browning B425,_ his Mind Palace finished for him.

The air buzzed about him in the wake of the gunshot and his own whirling thoughts. Something about…

"Sherlock. What is it?"

His continued silence and gaze that focussed on nothing in particular must've been alarming for Violet.

The phone calls!

Both phones, ringing within seconds of each other.

"Violet, who rang you just then?"

Confusion flitted across her face.

"I-it was… it was Mary," she replied.

Sherlock inhaled deeply, blinking rapidly as his thoughts collided.

 _Mary._

 _Mycroft._

"Violet," he said, holding Violet firmly. "This is one of those moments I need you to do as I ask, without question. Do you understand?"

Her eyes had widened considerably, but she slowly nodded.

"There," he said, spinning Violet around until she faced in the opposite direction. "That's west. Stay in the woods, but keep in site of the treeline. Head west. Once you're away from the estate, leave the wood and continue west. You should reach the road, and therefore the pub. It's about three miles."

Violet's breath caught, then released in a rush, so Sherlock turned her back to him.

"Once you're at the pub, ring Mycroft," he said.

Violet furrowed her brow.

"I… my phone…"

"Use the pub's phone."

She shook her head. "I don't know his number."

Sherlock recited his brother's number at a manic pace, which only served to confuse Violet further. Dammit. She'd never remember that!

"Ring the police, then," he said resignedly.

"Why?" she asked, lifting her chin a little. Her stubbornness was revealing itself now. "What are you going to do?"

"Don't worry about me. Just do as I ask."

"Sherlock—"

"Just…" He sharpened his gaze. "…trust me."

Their eyes locked on one another's, but Violet's expression softened before Sherlock's did.

"And then we'll head back to London, and have coffee," he added, a half-smile on his lips.

"I'd rather you do wicked things to me on that king bed," she whispered back.

His smile stretched wide.

Cradling her face in his hands, Sherlock ducked his head and pressed a soft kiss to Violet's lips. Before she could respond, he drew back. He held her for a moment longer, committing her expression—the way her eyes shone with a brightness that warmed his heart—to memory. Then he released her.

"Go," he said, gently prodding her in the direction he needed her to travel before he turned and headed back down the path towards the cottage.

He didn't look back.

After five minutes, Sherlock veered from the path so he could approach the farmhouse at an angle and within the shelter of the chestnut trees. But first, he needed to duck into the cottage and retrieve his phone. And perhaps a weapon of some description.

Before entering, Sherlock stood stock still against the wisteria-lined wall. He strained to hear any sounds coming from the farmhouse, but the whole point of offering the cottage to guests, was that its location offered a great deal of privacy from the farmhouse, and therefore, vice-versa.

Sherlock kept close to the wall as he approached the door. After turning the knob gently, he slowly pushed the door inwards.

Warm air from the fireplace escaped through the gap, and Sherlock stepped inside the cottage.

A man stood at the end of the bed staring at a device in his hand. He looked up in surprise, then a grin spread across his face. Sherlock immediately recognised him from the dozens of photos he'd once studied.

"Well, this is awkward," said Jim Moriarty. "Do you think they double-booked us?"


	29. Kill You? No, Don't Be Obvious

**Chapter 29 - Kill You? No, Don't Be Obvious**

Sherlock's lungs deflated.

"Jim Moriarty," the man said, approaching. "Hi!" Tilting his head, he then added, "Jim Moriarty? The C.O.O. of Etienne-Lumiere Studios?"

"How…?" Sherlock began.

"How did I… what?" Moriarty asked, one eyebrow raised. "Escape prison and end up so far from L.A.? Does that surprise you? I'm a criminal mastermind, Sherlock Holmes, and you lock me in a tower full of criminals—and I don't mean the ones who have convictions. Do you see how it was done yet?" He pocketed the phone he was holding.

"Bribes… threats," Sherlock murmured, feeling as if he was going to be pulled along for a ride he had not signed up for.

"And a willing participant—an actor, who looks a little bit like me. I escaped and left him languishing away in a prison cell. I don't think anybody's noticed yet."

He didn't think anyone had noticed?

The phone call from Mycroft.

Violet's from Mary.

Not a coincidence. No wonder Sherlock had the feeling something was up. Had Mycroft discovered Moriarty's deception and phoned to warn Sherlock?

With both their mobile phones switched off, Mycroft may not be able to call him, but Sherlock knew with almost one hundred percent certainty his brother had tracked his location to the nearest rooftop.

A smile playing on his lips, James Moriarty continued. "This is exactly how I imagined we'd end up. You and I." As he spoke, he began a slow circuit around Sherlock, hands thrust casually into pockets. "This is just as I wrote it. But I'm a little bit… disappointed. Not once have you gone off-script. Not once have you improvised and done something just that little bit daring and dangerous. Unless…"

When Sherlock's brow twitched, Moriarty stopped pacing, his features morphing into a look of exaggerated surprise.

"You did!"

Sherlock reeled. Did what?

"You took something, didn't you? Couldn't help yourself. Had a little sample. Although, that was sort of my plan as well. It could've gone horribly wrong for you. Congratulations on staying alive!"

"What are you talking about?"

"The Spice! The tainted Spice! It was all for you! Had to knock off a couple of your… now what do you call them? Your homeless… network… I love it…. just to get your attention. So you'd know it was out there and available. I didn't think the Spice would attract you. But the 3-FPM! Good old metrazine. I had a hand in the recipe. Did it get the fever back into your brain? Your veins? Did you find it too salty?"

Sherlock blinked. The man was mesmerising; that was probably his M.O. But Violet had interacted with this maniac on several occasions? No wonder she had eventually unravelled at the edges.

"You're taking a risk," Sherlock said, endeavouring to get on top of things. "My every move is tracked by the British Government. The Security Services. My brother's people. They'll know you're here."

"Oh, spare me," Moriarty cut back. "You can evade your brother and his minions when you really want to. And this time…" He gestured widely, taking in their surroundings. "… you wanted a private little retreat with our favourite actress. Speaking of whom… where is she? Where is Britain's Newest Talent?"

Sherlock felt a prickling at his nape.

"She's not here," he said. "She stormed off."

"Oh, come on. You've been here, what, an hour, and you've already had a lover's quarrel?"

"It didn't work out. She isn't here. If you know me, then surely my ability to piss people off isn't lost on you."

"Oh, please don't denigrate yourself," Moriarty replied with a shake of his head. "It isn't at all becoming." Indicating the bed, he added, "If that's the case, then she left without her handbag and suitcase."

Sherlock's eyes scanned the rest of the bed covers.

"Oh, don't bother looking for your phone," Moriarty said, retrieving the device from his pocket. "Love how you kept Irene's photos," he went on, his eyes glinting. "Obviously you worked out her passcode. She says 'hi' by the way."

Sherlock's stomach dropped. His grip on reality was loosening. Had it all been planned? Adler. Her phone. The data. The incriminating evidence leading to Moriarty's incarceration. Was there nothing this man didn't control?

Indicating the door, Moriarty said, "Why don't we go up to the house. I've got someone I'd like you to meet. And don't worry—I've got a couple of people who can go and fetch the lovely Ms Hunter, too."

 _Violet!_

Something inside Sherlock snapped. In a sudden rush of movement, he grabbed Moriarty by the lapels and thrust him hard against the cottage door.

"You're insane!" he growled.

"You're just getting that now?"

"What's to stop me snapping your neck?"

Behind him, he heard the click of a gun, before cool metal pressed against his nape.

"Don't be silly," Moriarty said, staring him dead in the eyes. "Somebody else is holding the gun. I don't like getting my hands dirty."

Sherlock released him and the gun eased back. A heavy weight settled onto his shoulders. Of course the psychotic maniac would have a heavy hiding in the bathroom.

Moriarty readjusted his jacket, brushing imaginary fluff from it.

"And I'm wearing Westwood," he said. "Not as swanky as Trevor & Vernet, but I get a special discount without needing to be a silent partner in the business."

Sherlock's cheeks reddened. Was there anything this man didn't know?

Pulling the door open, Moriarty said in a mock English accent, "After you, my good man." A Victor Trevor impersonation?

Sherlock clenched his fists by his side, his mind calculating a dozen possible modes of escape, but he received a shove in the back for his hesitation.

"Hands behind y'head," said the unseen bodyguard.

"Oh, he speaks!" said Moriarty.

Sherlock threaded his fingers behind his head and stepped through the doorway.

"What's your name again, my sweet henchman?" Moriarty said behind him.

As they crossed the terrace, Sherlock heard the man reply, "Thomas, sir."

"Ah, that's right. Tommy from Letterkenny. A man after my own heart."

Sherlock paused.

 _Letterkenny_.

"Your hometown," he shot back.

"Oh…!" Moriarty exclaimed. Sherlock stopped at the edge of the patio, turning to see the Criminal Mastermind's reaction. "You worked it out!" Moriarty added. "You sly thing. Is that why Doctor Watson's missus was poking around County Donegal? So she could report back to you? Well, off you go. Tell me."

"What?"

"Tell me what I wanted your girlfriend for."

"You want me to tell you what you already know?"

"I want you to prove you know it."

Sherlock chanced a glance at Thomas from Letterkenny, sizing him up and storing away his details for later.

"Lauren Myrtle was your nanny," he told Moriarty.

"Good!"

"But you were disappointed when she left your family's employ to become an actress."

"Not disappointed: devastated."

"And even more so when she was murdered by Stuart Jire. Manslaughter… but still…"

"He was into some serious kinky stuff. He was never pinned for it and obviously I didn't have the connections I do now to have done something about it."

Sherlock took this moment to take advantage of the impromptu rapport he and Moriarty were establishing by slowly lowering his hands.

"So you bided your time while you built your empire," Sherlock continued. "Meanwhile, because you felt betrayed by the entertainment industry for what it had taken away from you, you decided to toy with other actors' careers, particularly those who reminded you of Lauren."

"Really?" Moriarty responded, feigning shock.

"Daisy Firmington."

"A bitter disappointment."

"And I'm sure there were others, weren't there?"

"Failures, mostly. Not all of them Lauren-replicas, though. I had to have some fun. Timothy is one of my proudest successes."

Sherlock paused for a moment, noting the name 'Timothy' and finally retrieving 'Timothy Killaney' from his Mind Palace. He dismissed the connection to be analysed later.

"Then along came Violet."

"Now this is the fun part," Moriarty said, smiling. "It _was_ just a coincidence, though, wasn't it? That my formidable foe, Sherlock Holmes, was dating an actress who looked uncannily like my Lauren?"

"I'd never heard of you," Sherlock replied. "Let alone know enough about you to taunt you with a Lauren Myrtle lookalike."

Moriarty nodded in thoughtful agreement.

"Once you discovered Violet," Sherlock continued, "you thought you'd use her to finally seek revenge on Jire."

" _Regency Road_ was her break out role," Moriarty offered.

"But your plan didn't work."

"I couldn't control everything about the casting. Those creative types are unpredictable."

"Her character's hair colour," Sherlock stated. "Violet Hunter had to dye her hair black. Jire didn't take the bait."

 _Black Daisy._

"Good ol' Stu really does prefer blondes. But it all worked out in the end, didn't it. Jire ended up dating some other nobody, so I framed him for that one."

 _Chenoa Burton_ , Sherlock thought with a sigh.

"But why continue manipulating Violet's career?" he asked Moriarty.

The Consultant Criminal indicated the path that led to the farmhouse.

"Shall we continue on?"

The henchman also indicated the way forward with his gun.

"Hands back on y'head," he repeated.

"You tell him, Tommy," Moriarty said, walking ahead. As Sherlock lifted his hands once more and followed along the red brick path, Moriarty continued, "Our lovely Vi." He fell into step beside Sherlock when they crossed the lawn. "It's a wonder you haven't figured it out yourself."

When Sherlock remained silent, the Criminal Mastermind tutted.

"Oh, come on, it's not that difficult. You always want everything to be clever. You were getting in my way, remember. I sent you several messages to back off."

"Controlling Violet means you can control me."

"Uh huh. Making her a star meant she was thrust into the limelight, with you right along with her. You love being a celebrity. All those fans!"

"You did it to annoy me."

"Attaboy!"

Sherlock stifled an eye-roll.

"All my life I've been searching for distractions, Sherlock." They'd reached the backdoor to the farmhouse where another henchman stood guard. Sherlock sized him up—same make and model as Thomas: young, shaved head, inexperienced but definitely keen to impress.

Moriarty turned to face Sherlock. "You were the best distraction and now I don't even have you—because I've beaten you. And you know what? In the end it was easy."

The second henchman entered the cottage and held the door open for them.

Following Moriarty into the kitchen, Sherlock said, "You haven't beaten me ye…t."

He stopped. Two more men were waiting for them in the kitchen. The bald, pudgy one had taken a huge bite of a pie, while the other—medium build, sandy hair—leant against the kitchen counter, arms crossed and regarding the former with a look of disgust on his face. Both pairs of eyes locked on the newcomer. Sherlock knew them at once.

"You know Seb, of course," Moriarty said, gesturing towards the pie-eating Mancunian gangster.

"Fuckin' hell," Sebastian Moran said through a mouth full of gelatinised pork. "Sherlock Cunt'olmes."

"We picked him up on the way through," Moriarty announced. Picked him up? From HMP Manchester? "But you haven't met Jake yet, have you? Jacob Venucci — Sherlock Holmes. I believe you have a girlfriend in common."

Venucci straightened up.

Sherlock set his jaw firmly as the two men warily met each other's gaze.

"Where's Vi?" Venucci asked, tearing his eyes from Sherlock and addressing Moriarty.

" _Vi_ is missing," Moriarty replied.

"She isn't here," Sherlock added.

"Sherlock here would have us believe they've had a lover's tiff and she stormed off. But I think, he's sent her away. If you take one more bite of that pie…" Moriarty suddenly pointed at Moran, his tone tinged with menace, "… I'll turn you into one!"

As Moriarty shook his head and pinched the bridge of his nose, Sherlock regarded Jake Venucci once more. What was he doing here? Surely the man's love for Violet overshadowed his loyalty to Moriarty? Why would he knowingly put his ex-girlfriend in danger?

Venucci steadfastly kept his attention on his employer.

"Why don't we retire to the parlour," Moriarty announced. "It's much more civilised."

Thomas prodded Sherlock in the back. With a sigh, he followed both Moriarty and the unnamed second henchman out of the kitchen and along the passageway, turning right into the parlour.

Sherlock's stomach dropped. Cecil still sat in the chair in which Sherlock had last seen him, head lolling back, with the rifle he'd been cleaning earlier lying across his desk. The farmhouse owner had a neat hole in his forehead, the perfect shape of a bullet.

"Glad we've got a Consulting Detective," Moriarty said, rubbing his hands together. "My friend Seb was firing his gun without the silencer on and lost a bullet. Can you deduce where it ended up?"

"I'll give you a fuckin' hint," growled Moran, striding forward and jamming his gun against Sherlock's temple.

"Yes, all right, Seb. You're as subtle as a brick. The sound of the gunshot was the perfect lure for our curious detective. Now, have a seat, Sherlock. Gentlemen." Moriarty leant against Cecil's desk, folding his arms in front of him. "Go on," he prompted Sherlock.

After a brief scan of the room, Sherlock took a seat in the armchair in front of the French doors that opened onto the lawn. Top and bottom bolts: unlatched.

"Nice," Moriarty said, nodding in approval. "Strategic."

Moran sank his bulky frame onto a sofa, buttons straining against his expansive belly and his suit jacket dotted with pastry crumbs. Venucci leant casually against a tall cabinet. The two henchman stood sentry outside the door leading to the passageway.

"Jake," said Moriarty, "I know you like to pose as Mr Sex, but I did ask you all to take a seat."

Venucci scowled, grabbed the chair that sat in front of a writing desk and set it on the rug between the sofa and Sherlock's armchair. He perched himself on the edge of it, elbows resting on knees, with his gun hanging loosely in one hand.

Dammit. At that close a range, if Sherlock launched himself through the doors, as casually seated as Venucci appeared to be, the Mancunian could still manage to shoot him.

"Moran, Jr.," Moriarty called to one of the figures in the passageway. "You should be outside the house, not in. "And Tommy…" Indicating the French door with a nod of his head, he added, "Can you secure the bolts on the doors. Wouldn't want our clever little detective escaping before we've had our reunion with the starlet."

Sherlock exhaled deeply, casting a weary glance at Moriarty as Thomas crossed the rug for the doors.

"You see, Sherlock," the Consulting Criminal explained as his henchman secured the locks. "I'm always five steps ahead of you. I know how your mind works. You're that boring and that predictable."

Sherlock straightened in his seat.

"Yet you still sought me out," he said. "What does that make you?"

"Oh, that's funny," Moriarty responded in a posh English accent. "Awfully funny of you."

"Smart-arse cunt," volunteered Moran.

"Let's keep this civilised," Moriarty told Moran. "But our party's not complete. Since our guest of honour isn't being helpful, I'm going to use my Mind Palace to think like he does and deduce a location for the lovely Violet."

"You don't need her," Sherlock said. "You've got me."

"Oh, don't be so obvious," Moriarty replied. "Of course I want you both. I need to let Vi know I really appreciated her award-winning performance in your little charade. Actors like that sort of thing. Almost had me convinced, both of you."

Sherlock's eyes widened minutely. _Almost_ had him convinced? His mind buzzed. Moriarty knew their break up was fake?

"Loved the headlines, though," Moriarty continued. "They treated you a bit unfairly, didn't they? The press, the fans with their hashtags. I read it on the internet, so it must be true."

A cold clamp attached itself to Sherlock's heart.

 _He knew all along?_

"I love Twitter," Moriarty mused. "Can't really see the point of Instagram."

The months of being apart… eroding them… crushing Violet's spirits… It was all for _nothing_?

"Oh, don't look so shocked," Moriarty said. "Pretending to separate was a good idea; it held promise; but it was _so_ predictable." He chuckled. "I kept waiting for you to do something. Surely Violet gave you my name by the end there. Thought you might call. I had to put myself in jail to lure you out—to make you both think you were in the clear. But this is your plan? Sneaking off to the countryside for a romp in the hay? All that fornication—must be so distracting! You know all about that, right, Jake?"

When Venucci straightened up a little, Moran piped up, "Yeah, she's your tart— that's why you're a fuckin' traitor cunt!"

Venucci flew out of his chair.

"You dozy fuck," he snapped, levelling his gun at Moran. "Caught on camera. Y'did it y'self, sunshine!"

Moran jumped up from the sofa. Veins bulged along his temples.

"I'll fuckin' end this right now!" Pointing his gun at Venucci's head, he raged, "How about that, yeah?" Spittle dotted Moran's lips, his beady eyes darkening to pools.

"C'mon then," Venucci dared.

"Boys… boys…" said Moriarty. "If you don't calm down, I'll have to put you both on the naughty step. You're embarrassing me in front of our guest."

Sherlock had eyed the action with keen interest, but he endeavoured not to show it. His mind still reeled with Moriarty's revelation.

As Moran returned to the sofa, Venucci stalked away and stood leaning against the cabinet again.

Turning to address Sherlock, Moriarty said, "If you're not going to tell me where she is, Sherlock, I'll have to make a deduction myself and send Seb out to fetch her. On the other hand, if you tell us where she is, I'll send Jakey-boy instead. Now who would you prefer? The man who wants to strangle her, or the man who wants to—"

"Fuckin' tart," Moran muttered.

Sherlock's insides churned. Would Jacob Venucci's feelings for Violet have him spirit her away to safety instead of bringing her back to the farmhouse? Sherlock had no doubt Moriarty could make the correct deduction regarding Violet's whereabouts and he didn't want Moran anywhere near his girlfriend.

Sherlock inhaled sharply.

"She's on her way to the pub."

"She's what?" Moriarty asked, incredulous. "You sent _Violet Hunter_ to a pub? Do you know how ridiculous that sounds?"

"It's the closest public building."

Moriarty clapped his hands together.

"I love it. The world's ending and you send Violet Hunter to a pub."

Sherlock masked his feelings. He hoped Violet had made it to the pub and was phoning the police, but realistically, not enough time had passed.

And she was just as likely to get herself lost.

"All right. Look's like Jake's your man." As Venucci pushed off from the cabinet, Moriarty added, "But we need afternoon tea first, Jake. We're not savages. Did you bring it like I asked?"

"Prob'ly used it'imself," Moran said.

"Fuck off," Venucci retorted, reaching into his jacket pocket.

"Seb." Moriarty's eyes flashed a warning. "Make yourself useful and fetch the cable ties from the car."

"Send the lad," came the bored reply.

Jake Venucci drew out a slim case from his jacket pocket and placed it on the desk. Sherlock knew that type of case.

"I'm asking you," Moriarty said, approaching Moran. "Stand up."

When Moran hesitated, Moriarty suddenly bent over him.

"I said, ' _Stand up!'_ " he roared, lips curled back, eyes wild. Venucci glanced around in interest at Moran scrambling to heave his bulk out of the sofa. Moriarty straightened up and adjusted his jacket. Sherlock took this moment to survey the contents of Venucci's case.

Two vials containing a colourless liquid.

Two syringes in perfectly sealed packets.

Not used needles then. Thank Christ for that.

Moriarty followed Moran out of the room, saying, "And now you've made me cross, Seb. We need to have another little chat. You know how I don't…"

The reprimand continued into the passageway, his words retreating with their footfalls.

Thomas filled the doorway, tapping away at his phone. He now wore earbuds, Sherlock carefully noted.

Might only have seconds then.

"Coat," said Venucci, nodding at Sherlock's Belstaff as he retrieved the first vial from the case.

There was no point resisting or arguing, resulting in Venucci having to disrobe him by force. With Thomas in the room and the others outside, it would be a losing battle and a waste of energy.

Sherlock rose and slipped off his coat. Draping it over the armchair, he said, "She still loves you."

For a split second, Venucci paused as he placed the needle tip to the opening of the vial. Thomas's attention remained firmly on his phone.

"Jacket," Venucci instructed.

Sherlock eased out of his jacket with another furtive glance towards Thomas.

"I know her better than I know my own self," he continued in a low voice, "but I can't figure out why she still cares so much."

"Sleeve."

Sherlock swallowed. The act of rolling up a sleeve always produced a spike of adrenalin. Desire slipped her silky fingers along his veins. He could almost feel the prick of the needle now. Longed for it, in fact. He'd stopped using weeks ago, but here, now, it was being forced upon him. Both disgust and need waged a war within. He could use and it wasn't his fault!

Sherlock unbuttoned his cuff. Using was always a solitary and intimate experience for him. This felt odd and intrusive. But he had to focus. It had started off as an act, but the truth, he found, rolled off his tongue far easier than lies ever could. She taught him that.

"However this ends," he said, folding and turning over his sleeve, "when she finds out your involvement, she will never forgive you. This will destroy her."

This time Venucci met his gaze, the man's blue eyes narrowed to slits.

"Y'think y'know her?" the Mancunian businessman asked. "You've got no fuckin' idea. She's a survivor, is our Vi. She'll be all right, pal. Now, shut the fuck up."

Sherlock continued rolling his sleeve until it met his elbow as Venucci flicked the barrel of the now full syringe. Pushing the rest of the sleeve above his elbow, Sherlock exposed his favoured injection site. Goosebumps broke out on his flesh.

"You might wanna sit on the settee," Venucci said, nodding to the sofa. He handed Sherlock a rubber strap.

Sherlock took to the sofa and slowly wound the tourniquet around his arm, his heart thudding.

"May I ask what it is?"

"Yeah, it's a fuckin' liquorice allsort, this."

Inhaling deeply, Sherlock tried again.

"Opioid or stimulant?"

"Both," Jake replied. "This one's a synthetic opioid. He wants to depress your respiratory system. The other one's a stimulant. Jack up your heart-rate. He's laid bets on which one'll kill you first."

Of course he has, the maniac.

Sherlock secured one end of the tourniquet against his bicep, then pulled tightly on the other.

"And which one did you favour?" he casually asked.

Venucci pulled up a footstool in front of the sofa and sank down onto it.

"To be perfectly honest, man, I think Seb's gonna put a bullet through your 'ead if Moriarty can't control him."

Sherlock straightened out his arm, supporting his hand on his knee.

"And what will Moran do to Violet?" Sherlock ventured, beginning to pump his fist in order to establish a vein.

Venucci focussed on Sherlock's arm.

"She'll be all right, if I have anything to do with it. You're gonna have to keep your trap shut now, otherwise I'm gonna go through the vein, yeah?"

Both men regarded Sherlock's network of veins. The detective knew the gangster was steeling himself for the task at hand. The horror of a missed or pierced vein rippled through Sherlock.

"May I do it?" Sherlock asked.

Venucci regarded him for a moment, blinked once, then handed over the syringe. Sherlock's heart raced.

"No funny business."

Sherlock lined up the tip to his chosen vein. When the needle pierced his skin, the fever broke in his mind. This was worth dying for. His lips parted and he sighed.

"You some kinda addict?" Venucci asked, watching him carefully.

Blood swirled and mixed with the opioid in the barrel. Hypnotic as always.

Mycroft thinned his lips. John Watson slowly shook his head in disappointment.

"I believe I am," Sherlock replied, his voice rough from a distant longing.

Sherlock always knew he'd die this way—at the end of a needle. The rush and a last second panic often entwined. Most times, he really didn't care. Life was always a struggle against boredom anyway. He may as well end it in the most dramatic way he knew.

But Violet. He didn't need to survive for her, but he did want to make sure she could do more than just survive. He'd have one more try before he depressed the plunger fully.

"All she's ever wanted is to love and be loved," he said. "To belong. To have her life mean something. You know this."

Venucci stood up.

"Tom," the Mancunian said, addressing the man in the doorway. "Oy!"

Thomas looked up and yanked out an earbud.

"Get Moriarty," Venucci bid him. "'e wants to be 'ere for this."

Thomas's eyes dropped to Sherlock, finally focussing on his surroundings. He turned and left the room.

Sherlock held his breath, then slowly pushed.

"He's taken everything from her," he murmured.

Suddenly, Venucci's hand stopped the plunger's progression halfway.

"That's enough," he said. "Any more will kill you."

As footfalls approached, Venucci pulled the syringe out of Sherlock's vein. Sherlock quickly placed a finger over the injection site and bent his arm, his thoughts whirling with need and loss. He plucked at the tourniquet, loosening it a little.

It was enough.

It wasn't enough.

Bones growing heavy, tendons loosening, Sherlock sank into the back of the sofa.

He wanted to thank Venucci for the hit, or for saving his life, he wasn't sure which. But all that issued from his lips was a sigh as his eyelids fluttered shut and the sofa cushions enveloped him in a warm and tender embrace.

#

 **Author's Note:**

 **A big thank you to those who reviewed that last couple of chapters! Your support this year keeps me motivated! I hope I'm providing an adequate distraction during this time. Sorry about the content of the chapter! I find it hard to write Moriarty because he's such a larger than life character with the way Moftiss wrote him as a complete loon! I hope my version didn't come across as too corny. But I'm sorry about Sherlock, too. D:**

 **Next chapter: what Violet's up to!**


	30. That's What People Do!

**Chapter 30 - That's What People Do!**

 _ **Doe Park**_

 _ **Farmhouse**_

 _ **B &B**_

Violet alternated her gaze between the sign on the fence post and the road she'd just travelled. Disappointment drizzled through her. She'd made it to the road! Through the wood, ever westward! How was this _not_ the pub!

 _Because you turned right, instead of left_ , Sherlock told her in her imagination. Scolded her, in fact.

But he didn't say! He just said take the road to the pub, not which way to turn once she hit the road.

 _Because most people would have a sense of direction. Most people would head in a westerly direction, then turn left, so they wouldn't end up completing a full circle._

To go back meant about four miles until she hit the pub. If there even was a pub.

I used to jog five miles, almost every day! This will be easy, won't it? A light jog up the road. Four miles. The circuit through Hyde Park wasn't so hard either.

 _Yes,_ agreed Sherlock _, until the day Jake drove by._

Violet shuddered.

Scanning the driveway, she tried to make out the farmhouse, but it wasn't visible from the road.

She could just…

What? Walk up to the cottage and use her own damn phone to call the police? But it didn't look or sound like anything dramatic was happening there now.

How could she tell, though? The sun had set. Twilight stretched beyond the line of trees, and it would be too dark to see anything by the time she reached the farmhouse. And Sherlock was expecting her to make it to the pub. She should've been there by now! What if he was waiting for her at the bar, cradling a pint, wanting to tell her there had been nothing to worry about in the end.

Violet drew in a deep breath.

Sherlock nursing a pint? What kind of fantasy world was she living in?

So move. Just go somewhere.

Grumbling to herself for having no sense of direction, Violet started up the driveway. She may as well return to comfort, to warmth, to a place she knew, where there were people who were hospitable, rather than hiking along the road towards an unknown destination in the rapidly chilling evening.

As her footfalls crunched along the driveway, the dark and silence pressed in on her. The back of her neck prickled.

What was she doing? If there was danger here, then she was heading straight for it! Sherlock said to trust him. Do as he said without question. But she hadn't phoned anyone! She'd failed.

Heart thudding, Violet cautiously moved to the edge of the driveway.

 _Move along the tree line_ , Sherlock told her. _Stay low. Approach the side of the house where there are no windows._

Violet closed her eyes for a moment until her breath steadied.

Crouching, she moved through the trees and shrubs. Leaves and branches raked at her skin, until finally, she walked straight into a low bough.

"Fuck!" she ground out, with a stomp of her foot.

Who put this here!

Who planted this tree!

She wanted to look around and make eye contact with a production assistant, a 3rd AD, or even Mandi—some underling who should've been doing their job and _not_ bringing her tepid tap water on those mornings she'd been hungover!

Violet rubbed her forehead.

What had she become? An entitled spoilt diva?

You're better than this.

Sherlock had taught her how to stalk people. Acting had taught her how to pretend to be a badass superhero. Or a psychotic drunken private investigator. Oh no… the drunken bit was added by her.

Stupid film, she thought, finally continuing on. Who would ever get to see _Arthur Avenue_ —a film noir, with Violet Hunter as the P.I. who ended up being the killer! What a twist! Without a distributor, nobody other than film festival enthusiasts would get to see it.

A laugh caught in her throat. They would've secured a distributor if Violet hadn't tried to approach Jim Moriarty with a butter knife while the deal was being negotiated in a New York restaurant. Who does that?

Violet finally reached the farmhouse, arguing with herself all the way. An orange pin of light danced across the front of the house, turned a corner and disappeared down the side. Her heartbeat echoing in her ears, Violet chased after it, keeping low.

A lit cigarette, she deduced. The ache in her heart longed for it to be Sherlock, but she knew it wasn't. Why would he be casually smoking when his girlfriend was missing?

The figure stopped short in the spotlight produced by the wedge of light spilling from a window, as if he was preparing for a soliloquy.

Wait, Violet thought, straightening up to get a clearer look.

The shaven head, the boyish form in an ill-fitting suit. She knew that type!

Sebastian Moran's toy soldiers!

The boys would flank the notorious gangster as he sat on the couch in Kabuki's, laughing on cue, the sycophants that they were. Fear drizzled into Violet's core.

Moran's men were here, now, and Sherlock was probably inside with them.

The lad turned, and Violet could see a gun at the end of one gangly arm. Her throat ran dry. How had this happened? Had Moran ordered his crew to follow Sherlock or Violet here? But that's…

That's all wrong.

His people were now _Jake's crew_ , weren't they? And Jake would never do this. Never scheme to do something so sinister…

Unless…

Violet's mind was reluctant to grasp the obvious.

Jim.

Only Jim Moriarty had the reach to organise something like this. But from the U.S.? From prison? Asking Manchester gangsters to venture so far from their own patch? This far south?

Violet watched the young man drop his cigarette and crush it, before he continued on his way. He turned the corner once more and headed for the back of the farmhouse.

 _Think, Violet,_ Sherlock insisted.

This is _so_ not on her. She should go and get help, not go marching in there like… like… like _Satis_! One of the _Five_. She wasn't a superhero, for goodness sake!

Bile caught in her throat.

 _You've done this before_ , Sherlock told her.

She went marching into Kabuki's and provoked Sebastian Moran. He almost strangled her, and she had spat in his face! How was this any different?

Because I had John as my backup.

Because Sherlock and Mary were waiting for us.

Because Danny was there.

Because…

 _Because it was my plan,_ Sherlock added. _A good one, too_.

So what would Sherlock tell her to do?

 _I asked you to phone for help._

God! Stop it with the phoning people, Sherlock! I don't have my phone! My phone's…

Oh.

 _Go and get your phone!_

Violet continued on, away from the house, her heart rate accelerating. The dark patch of nothingness told her she was alongside the lawn now. So in just a few seconds she could veer back onto the path.

The air grew chilly around her, and she felt exposed when she emerged from the shrubbery and took the red brick path towards the terrace at the rear of the cottage.

Her breath came in short bursts as she grasped the door handle and twisted slowly. Violet entered the room, warmed by a dull glow from the fire which had died down to embers.

After hastening over to the bed, she rummaged inside her hand bag for her phone.

It should be there! Right on top!

She tipped the contents onto the bed, pushed aside lipsticks and lip balms, store loyalty cards, lotions and pens, a small notebook she used to take to auditions but hadn't looked at in months, a crumpled serviette, her coin purse, a small hairbrush, a compact mirror (thought I'd lost that!), and more bits and bobs… but no phone!

Violet scanned the bed. Didn't Sherlock throw his phone onto the bed after turning it off, too?

The fire cast shadows over all her items, but neither of their phones lay amongst them.

They've taken them, she thought, the shadows of the room now weighing heavily on her. Whoever _they_ were.

 _You're going to have to manage this yourself_ , whispered Sherlock.

In the eerie stillness of the cottage, Violet listened to her own breathing, willing it to slow down. Her insides fluttered.

Remember the crane, she told herself. Five metres high. Tethered by wire, she had to leap towards the crash mat. The first time was terrifying. She had stood, paralysed by fear. But Heidi, her stunt double, and Scott, their stunt coordinator, had taught her how to launch herself and how to fall. Over and over they'd practised before she'd even been hoisted onto the platform.

Sherlock had taught her how to fight. Falls and blocks and counter-attacks.

Yes, but… that was foreplay, wasn't it?

 _Well_ , Sherlock said, giving her a half smile. _Wrestling would invariably lead to sex, but one of us took the fighting seriously!_

He did. She'd be giggling during their wrestling holds, but his furrowed brow told her to concentrate. This was important!

But it was the thought of the unknown that could cripple her if she didn't move now, quickly and without too much thought.

Violet seized the cast iron poker from the fireplace. She tested its weight and made a half-hearted attempt to remember her single stick drills.

One - forward, downward diagonal. Two - backhand, downward diagonal. _One_ , she puffed, _Two_.

Oh God. This is too heavy. And I'm going to seriously hurt someone with this.

Violet looked towards the door, her chest heaving.

No, she thought, letting the poker drop. No direct assault weapons. She had other skills at her disposal.

#

 _Down, on the floor!_ Kevin mouthed.

His imaginary adversaries slowly crouched, hands raised, before stretching out, face down, in front of him. He chuckled and nodded in satisfaction. He would've spun the gun around his forefinger, like he'd seen Tommy do, but he didn't want to drop it. Still, with the safety catch on, he could have a go.

Kevin cast his gaze wide. Everybody else was inside. He was well hidden out the back. Nothing but him and the dark—

He paused. Something stirred across the lawn.

"Someone out there?" he called, his heart beginning to pound.

Prob'ly just a rabbit, he thought. Or a deer. They come right up to the cottage, they said. He'd read that in a brochure inside. While they were waiting. Waiting for that… that detective—that big shot detective from down south. _Sherlock Cunt'olmes_ , Uncle Seb often spat. The gangster boss hated him. And his bird.

 _Violet fuckin'unter,_ Uncle Seb ground out. She was that bird what was on the telly. _Regency Road._ Jake's tart, Tommy had told him. But now she was with that plod.

A giggle floated through the darkness. Kevin pointed his gun at it, securing his hold with both hands.

"I said, who's there?" he called again.

Another giggle.

"Would it kill you people to have some f-fucking lights out here?" came a woman's voice. Bit of a posh London accent. "How can anyone…" A figure emerged from the shadows, wobbling a bit. "Your torch isn't working," she added, her hand shielding her eyes as if his torch _was_ working.

But he wasn't holding a torch.

Kevin quickly dropped his gun and shoved it into the back of his trousers. He didn't want to be seen pointing a gun at some bird. And a drunk one at that.

"What you doing out there?" he asked.

"I'm trying," she said, sighing heavily, "to get to the — fucking — pub."

She emerged into the light. Her brow immediately furrowed, and she asked, "Who are you?" Her eyes dropped to his suit. "Are you the waiter?"

Kevin stepped back, his hand stealing around to his gun. But it _was_ her! Violet fuckin'unter off the telly!

"You're not!" she went on, incredulous. "We told Cecil we'd eat at the pub! I'm so sorry! Were you here just for the night?"

"No… no," Kevin replied, with a shake of his head.

Her eyebrows were arched in that way that made her look all sad, like when she talked about her dead brother. But she was doing 'er boyfriend's dad, weren't she? Christa, the tart. She 'ad 'is baby 'n all. But this bird didn't sound like Christa.

"Which way's the pub?" she asked, turning her back on him and peering into the darkness.

He had to get her inside, without a big song and dance. Kevin didn't fancy holding Violet Hunter at gunpoint. Sherlock 'olmes's bird or not. She was on the telly.

"Come 'ere, this way," he said, approaching her and placing light hands about her arms.

 _Whack!_

A bolt of pain shot through his nose, rattling his cheekbones. Kevin groaned, bringing his hands to his face and stumbling backward. What the fuck—

The next thing he saw was herself, her face lit in fury, then—

 _Oof!_

The wind was knocked out of him. He sank to his knees.

Can't…

… breathe.

Can't breathe.

His lungs had collapsed.

As he tried to gulp in air, he was hit on the back of the neck and he crumpled to the ground. Head ringing, chest crushed like a paper bag, Kevin curled himself into the foetal position, waiting for more blows to rain down on him.

"Who's inside?" she insisted, pushing something hard and metallic against his head.

Kevin held his hands up, trying to shield his face.

"I said…" she began again.

"Ah… jus… jus… jus…"

His thoughts were scrambled. His face was wet with tears, blood or snot. Maybe all three.

" _Who?_ "

"Ah… me… me… me… Uncle Seb… an'… an'… an' Mist… Mister M-Moriarty. The others went… went to look for you. At the p-pub."

The gun eased back.

"Where's Sherlock?" she asked. "Is he in there, too?"

Her brow was furrowed now. She didn't look tanked anymore.

 _Oh, you dumb cunt._ It were just an act! And he fell for it!

"Yeh," he said, his voice cracking. "Yeh, he is."

"Is he all right?"

"D-dunno."

She stepped back from him. He could see what she was holding now. A gun. _His_ gun. With both hands. Steady and confident.

Then she clicked the safety off.

Kevin felt his bowels loosen.

"Why don't you know?" she asked. "Is he or isn't he?"

Her voice was devoid of all emotion.

"Ah… coz… coz… they sent me out 'ere. I dunno what's going on in there."

"Get up."

Kevin started shaking his head. He wanted to stay on the ground, curled up. Where it was safe.

"I _will_ shoot you."

"Oh… God…" he gasped out.

Trembling, he curled up into an even tighter ball. This was the end. He knew it.

#

Violet regarded the young man, a member of Sebastian Moran's entourage, curled up at her feet. Hardly the gangland enforcer he probably aspired to be.

With a sigh, she crouched in front of him.

"What's your name?"

"K… K… K-Kevin."

"Kevin," she repeated. "Look… Kevin. I'm not going to kill you. That's not something I do. But if you don't co-operate, I might be forced to shoot you in the foot. I do know how to handle a firearm."

He whimpered.

"All I want you to do is walk inside. Okay? I have to find out if my boyfriend is all right, and I need you to walk in front of me."

He shook his head.

"Just sit up for a moment. Catch your breath. I've winded you, that's all."

He gurgled and grabbed at his nose.

"And I elbowed you in the nose," she added. "Nothing that a bag of frozen peas won't fix. Now, sit up. There's a good lad."

He really was in a poor state, Violet observed, as the young man hoisted himself into a sitting position. She advised him to pinch the bridge of his nose to stymy the flow of blood.

"How old are you, Kevin?"

"N-nineteen."

"Nineteen. That's a good age to be. The whole world is yours for the taking. When I was nineteen, I didn't know what I wanted to do. I dropped out of uni. I wanted to be an actress, but not in the way they wanted me to. And now look where I am."

Violet attempted a smile, but Kevin frowned.

"What I'm saying is—you don't have to do what everyone around you is doing if your dreams lie elsewhere."

"I want to be a car mechanic."

"There you go."

Violet scanned the back of the farmhouse. Most of the windows were darkened. Only through the backdoor could she make out a dull glow from inside the house.

"So, come on," she said, straightening up. "On your feet."

"I can't go in there like this. Uncle Seb'll be fuckin' mad."

"Of course you can. I snuck up on you. I… I hit you with a… a… poker from the fireplace. From the cottage. Nobody could defend against an unseen assailant like that. It wasn't really fair, in that respect."

Kevin looked about them.

"What poker?"

Violet sighed.

"I'm just making it up," she replied. She hadn't wanted to tell him she'd taken him down with her bare hands, but he'd called her bluff. "There wasn't one. Look… I learnt all those moves so my character could fight against the evil henchmen of Apophis in _Rise of the Five._ Fight choreography. With stuntmen. Anyone could do it."

Kevin looked up at her and blinked uncomprehendingly.

"It's for my next film," she offered. "An action movie… Look, Kevin, we're going to be absolutely fine. I promise. When all this is over, we can have a laugh about it at the pub."

Kevin looked towards the farmhouse door, as if considering his options.

"You mean it?" he asked. "Coz your Violet 'unter, and I'm just… just…"

"A car mechanic from Manchester? All my favourite people are from Manchester."

This time her smile was genuine. It must've done the trick, because Kevin gingerly rose to his feet.

"Is Sebastian Moran really your uncle?" Violet asked.

"'e says we can call 'im that."

Interesting, thought Violet. She had thought there was something sleazy about the way Sebastian Moran gathered young men to him, dressing them in cheap suits and making them shave their heads to match his.

She gestured towards the door.

"I'll follow you into the house. Where are they all?"

"Should still be in the parlour."

"Good. Just walk slowly through the house with your hands raised. You don't have to do anything else, all right?"

"Yeh…" His voice went ragged again. "All right."

When her own heart rate began to accelerate, Violet paused.

Okay. Calm down.

Overpowering a nineteen year old who barely knew which end of the gun was the dangerous end was the easy part.

What lay in store for her inside? And what had happened to Sherlock?

When Kevin entered the kitchen, leaving the door open for her to follow, Violet held out one hand to prevent the door banging as it swung shut.

As they walked along the passageway, Kevin turned his head once towards her, as if checking to see if she was still behind him. Violet kept both hands on the gun. It was steady, even though she felt as if her hands were trembling.

Kevin turned the corner, and suddenly they were through a doorway.

She saw him immediately and the blood froze in her veins.

Jim Moriarty.

He sat casually against the corner of a desk, looking at his phone. A figure Violet couldn't quite make out was slumped in a chair behind him.

Violet felt her spirit separate from her body, but she kept her aim on the back of Kevin's head.

"Nobody move!" she said, her voice sounding distant and foreign to her. "Or I'll shoot him!"

A man rose from an armchair and turned to face her.

Sebastian Moran. Oh God. Larger and more menacing than she last remembered him.

"Drop your weapon!" she yelled at him, upon spying the gun in his hand.

Jim clucked his tongue in amusement.

"Oh, Seb," he mourned, and he made an exaggerated gesture of hanging his head in his hand.

Sebastian Moran raised his gun and Violet froze.

A loud popping sound jolted Kevin's head backwards, making Violet jump. She pulled her own hands away and staggered backwards when Kevin suddenly crumpled to the ground. Moran lowered his gun, his expression wild. Violet's jaw dropped, her mind reeling as she took in Kevin's lifeless body. In the split second that followed, she thought she'd accidentally pulled the trigger herself.

In a rush, Moran was upon her, his arm shooting out. Pain exploded on her face. She stumbled into the door jamb, dropping the gun. Her head was suddenly jerked back, a sharp, wrenching sensation at the base of her scalp, an oily breath on her neck.

"I'll fuckin' kill you, y'cunt!"

"Seb!" commanded Jim.

Violet was half-dragged, half-shoved into the room. She staggered to catch her balance, but still fell heavily against a couch where a body lay outstretched.

 _Sherlock!_

"'ere's lover boy," Moran gnashed out.

"Seb, please. Remember your manners," came Jim's silky voice.

"Sher-lock," Violet gasped. A lifeless hand dangled from the couch in front of her. Her mind felt like it was rattling around in her skull. Her cheek bones continued to ring in pain. But the rest of her?

Seeing Sherlock lying so helplessly lit a spark inside. It was like recovery time during a session of high intensity interval training!

Violet snapped her legs together, rising in one fluid movement. Grabbing the first object she spied, she swung it around, aiming it for the large figure that still loomed beside her.

The antique clock smashed against Sebastian Moran's bald head. Jim gave a yelp in surprise and jumped back from the desk. Violet still hung onto what was left of the clock. Raising it high once more, she prepared to bring it down upon Moran's crumpled form when she was side-swiped.

Crushed against the desk, all she could see was the lifeless body of a middle-aged man slumped back in his chair, a hole in his forehead.

"Don't fuckin' move," a low voice said in her ear, as a body pinned her arms behind her. "Not a fuckin' muscle. You know how this works, Vi. Tom! Get the cable ties."

"No," she gasped. He couldn't be here, too! He wouldn't do this! "Jake," she murmured, as her hands were bound tight.


End file.
